A Part of Me
by penandpencil
Summary: Year Seven. Sequel to "Always in the After" from Ginny's POV. Hermione's healing takes several unexpected turns. Warning: Femmeslash, Hermione/Ginny. Mentions of rape/abuse from previous story, but rated M for much less depressing reasons. Well, mostly.
1. Any Other Girl

Summary: Sequel to _Always in the After_, from Ginny's POV. Hermione's healing takes several unexpected turns. Warning: FemmeSlash Her/Gin. Mentions of previous rape/abuse, but rated M for much happier reasons. Well, mostly.

Disclaimer: I still only own the few meager possessions in my apartment, not any of J.K. Rowling's characters, spells, charms, potions, plants, animals, magical devices, and so on.

Also, approximately 10 words of dialogue in a later chapter belong to my ex, who would be pleased to see them in Ginny's mouth.

Note: The following story takes place during the trio's seventh year at Hogwarts and the summer that precedes it. It also takes the liberty of assuming that Voldemort was defeated at the Department of Mysteries Battle at the end of Order of the Phoenix. Thus, it is canon only up to book five, and mine, plot-wise, from there. Finally, it is a sequel to _Always in the After _(Year Six), and it will flow a lot more smoothly and make a lot more sense if you have read that fanfiction first. However, doing so is not a strict requirement, especially if you're only here for the romance/femmeslash. (Note also that the following story is from Ginny's POV, and it may include her perspective on some of the events that took place in the previous tale.)

* * *

**(Two Months Post _Always in the After)_**

Slumped into a seat in the last open compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Ginny began riffling through the scraps of parchment that she had shoved haphazardly into her trunk that morning. She wanted to decide which ones to pitch and which ones to keep, to avoid a lecture from her mother about the state of her packing, and, most of all, to simply be immersed in anything that would pass the time. Sighing, Ginny chastised herself for not tossing the whole lot in the rubbish bin on her way out of the Gryffindor dorms. After all, each and every sheet was ruddy useless now, with her O.W.L.S finally over and a whole study-free summer ahead. But all of them had also been kept for a reason, albeit one even Ginny considered a bit silly.

There was the torn off bit of a Potions scroll on the twenty-three uses of Griffin Tongues, marked by Snape with an "P". Under the grade, three words were wound in impossibly neat cursive, "Well, what does that _git _know? Love, Herm." Then there was the page of hastily copied notes on the Goblin Standoff of 1433, the one that Hermione had absentmindedly doodled stick figures all over, while quizzing Ginny between classes. And stuck to that was a wrinkled Transfiguration Quiz, the one she had aced and then left her on her four-poster. The one her suitemate had found and pounced her with a hug for . . .

_Really, _Ginny mentally huffed, _I only keep them because they remind me how much better she's gotten in the last couple of months! _She knew it wasn't a lie per se, at least not enough of one to make her feel guilty when she shoved the whole stack back into her trunk. _Let mum yell, _she challenged her worries_, I'll do my own bloody laundry! _

Yet somewhere inside of her, Molly Weasley was the only concern that allowed itself to be extinguished, and Ginny was forced to once again toil over the thoughts that remained. Thoughts that revolved around a younger, thinner girl, one with bushy brown hair and ink-stains on her oft-bitten nails . _Why is it_, the red-headed girl wondered, _that I've gone all pissy, just because she's sitting in the prefect's carriage with Ron?! It's never been different . . . not really. _

But then, she knew, since last winter, it had. Ever since Seamus and his horrible blessing of a joke, Hermione and Ginny had never really been apart for long, at first at the younger girl's insistence and then at the older's. They sat together at meals, slept in the same bed, separated only for classes, showers, and the like. Sure, Ron and Harry were usually there too, and she had grown almost as close with them as she had with the female member of their original trio. But it wasn't the same.

Perhaps, she hoped, she was merely feeling some angsty teenage grief over being, for the first time in a long time, left out. But she knew she couldn't justify it. Not when the prefect's were required to fulfill their duties upon boarding, not when Hermione had pulled her close on the stairs and promised to join her after a bit. Recalling that moment, Ginny's senses were overwhelmed by the scent of lilacs and freshly bought parchment, the scent that had met her nose, when Hermione's body, in that moment, had met Ginny's . . .

_Stop it!, _the Weasley girl scolded herself, shaking free of the memory. _Why must you think of her like THAT? I mean, it's not like she's your . . . It's not like you'd like to be her . . . _but Ginny was afraid to put a word to it, to give her feelings a label that might fit her yearnings only too well.

It wasn't that Hermione was a girl, not really. For although she had not confided this in anyone, Ginny had long ago realized--and confirmed through experiments with Dean and others--that the feminine form alone could hold her attention. No, her gender was not the issue. The issue was that she was _Hermione. _Had it been any other skirted Hogwart's student, Ginny would have accepted her affectionate longings, readily and without guilt no matter the other girl's sexual orientation. She may not have acted on them, but she would have allowed the fantasies to linger all the same.

Herm, however, had been violated by another's twisted desires for her body only a year before. And although that was_ not_ Ginny's intention, although she only wanted to give the other girl love, not lust or hurt, she nonetheless feared the reaction a romantic gesture might receive. True, Hermione was growing stronger and happier, was breaking free of her pain and rarely dreaming of Jacob. But Ginny was the one Hermione trusted to hold her when such a nightmare came, the one Hermione sought out for comfort, emotionally and physically, when she was at her most vulnerable. And despite these new feelings that had cropped up unexpectedly over the last few weeks, Ginny would do anything to not betray that bond, to not betray what it meant to her and what it meant to her closest friend.

And on top of all that, she knew that Herm fancied her brother. Probably always had, and probably always would.

"Pointless," Ginny muttered, shifting her focus to the blurs of green, yellow, and brown rushing past the compartment window. _Pointless, and stupid, and something I need to get over before . . ._

The rattling of the compartment door interrupted Ginny's musings, causing her heart first to leap in anticipation and then to crash, when she saw it was only Neville Longbottom.

"S-s-sorry!" the older boy stammered, noticing her look of disappointment, "It's only that I can't find Luna anywhere and Harry's, well . . . he's busy snogging what's-her-name, that beater from Ravenclaw. Thought I should, you know, give 'em some space," Neville muttered, "seeing as how he's on her like my gran on a piece of Peach Cobbler."

Ginny snorted a laugh at the image, one that brought an awkward smile of relief to Neville's face, and then she patted the seat next to her, inviting the amiable distractions that her fellow Gryffindor might bring. "Her name's Roxie, Roxie Polling, and really, Neville, you ought to know, considering she's been sneaking into our common room every night for weeks."

When Neville still looked at her confused, Ginny shook her head, and prodded him further, "You know, the girl who knocked him unconscious during the first match of the season, the same one responsible for Draco Malfoy having to sit his exams with a string of pink fairies tatooed across his forehead? Honestly, it was probably that one that made him fall for her, although with the way she fills out those Quidditch robes . . ."

But her companion just shrugged, remaining oblivious to even the insinuation of bosoms, and Ginny resigned her ambition to draw more out of him on the subject. Instead, she passively watched Neville fiddle with one of the buttons on his almost-outgrown robes, before turning her attention back to the window and the thoughts she had left lingering there.

_She'll come, _Ginny sighed, and probably Ron with her. Maybe even Harry and Roxie, or Luna, or who knows who else. But _she'll _come.

_She'll come and then we'll have the whole ride, the whole summer, for me to sort this out. _


	2. Spiders and Gnomes

Later that night, as the steady hum of crickets dusted the Burrow, Ginny lay on her side in bed, one arm propping up her head and the other draped loosely over Hermione's stomach. Stifling a yawn, she attempted to steady herself in the smooth rise-and-fall motion beneath her left hand, the one that meant Hermione was dreaming peacefully and she could be too.

With painstaking care, Ginny eased her head back onto her pillow, and then immediately tensed when she heard a soft and sleepy mumble escape the other girl's lips. "Gin?"

"Yeah, Herm?" Ginny breathed in reply, cursing herself for not staying still.

But Hermione didn't answer, and instead simply nestled closer to her, until her back was pressed firmly against the younger girl's chest and her long tangles of hair temporarily stole the air from the room. Another minute passed before Ginny let out a contented sigh of relief, satisfied that Hermione had never really woken.

"Sleep, love," she whispered softly, wrapping her arm more snugly around her friend, "Sleep on, and I won't leave you. I promise."

Although the red-head knew that Hermione did not hear this vow, she nonetheless managed to ease her own mind with the truth of it. Over the last several months, Ginny's every sense had grown attuned to the smallest sign of need emanating from the other girl, so much so that the mere fearful quickening of Hermione's breath would rouse her from even the deepest of slumbers.

Grateful as she was for this ability, however, Ginny was even more grateful that it was growing obsolete. How long had it been since Hermione had clung to her crying in the night, images of Jacob's hurt still crowding her mind? Two weeks, or maybe even three? How long had it been, for that matter, since Hermione had wept at all? Nevertheless, Ginny's best friend still refused to go to bed without her, would not even nap lest she was enclosed in such an embrace. Not that Ginny had ever raised any objection or ever would.

_Maybe that's all these befuddled feeling are_, the Weasley girl sighed to herself, _my protectiveness stirring in with the affection and sisterly love that's always been there. _But as the warmth of Hermione's body continued to flood through her own, Ginny was forced to remind herself of all the many nights they had spent in just this position, nights before the trial, when Hermione had needed her even more.

Pretend as Ginny might, the emotions she felt then were _not _the same as the ones that she now battled, not even close. They certainly, for example, did not call forth any images of her own beloved brother cowering beneath the threat of a double bat-bogey-jelly-legs jinx.

For love Ron, though she might, Ginny could not help but let her imagination tenderly stroke the jealous monster that had been birthed inside of her on the Hogwarts Express that afternoon. The green-tinged beast that had roared a rush of heat to her face when she saw her brother take Hermione's hand just beyond the door of her compartment, the one that had muffled her hearing and seized her breath when she heard them bashfully announce that they were now dating.

Shuddering with embarrassment, Ginny recalled how quickly the words had caused her to reach for her wand, how easily the gesture might have been seen if Luna, at that very moment, had not distracted everyone by loudly rolling up her _Quibbler_ and jabbing it at the invisible Wrackspurts floating around Neville's dozing head. She'd have to be more careful, the red-head reminded herself, more careful to control her impulses in the days to come, even if took an internally-repeated mantra of _whatever-makes-Hermione-happy. _

For that was all she really wanted, no matter what lies the monster told her. And if Ron could make it so, well, what choice did she have but to sit back and let him? Sure, it would have been easier if she at least still had her confusion to cling to. But in the moment of the wand-and-the-Wrackspurts, she had recognized a truth that she now forced herself to swallow. _I love her. _

_Not as a sister, not just as a friend. I'm _in_ love with her. _

_But it isn't her fault, and it isn't even my brother's. They can't help the way they are any more than me, and even if it destroys my heart to let her go, I'll do it if it means I won't lose her. _

* * *

Despite the declaration she had fallen asleep to that night, Ginny could not help, over the next few weeks, but to make her brother share the smallest possible portion of the angst she felt daily.

It had started small at first--the wash-load with his favorite jeans 'accidentally' getting turned up to hot and shrinking all of its contents a smidgen, the family of garden gnomes captured and then let loose in his bedroom on a rainy afternoon, the harmless house-spider placed on the bathroom sink right before he went in to have his morning shave. Honestly, Ginny meant no harm by any of it. She had actually even cried a bit when she heard his high-pitched squeals echoing past her bedroom during the spider bit. Granted, they were tears of laugher. But who could really tell?

No, fun as these exploits were, she'd never _really _hurt her older sibling, who for all his absurd maleness could sometimes be rather sweet and funny. She just also couldn't let her conscience rest easy, lest she put a few slight dents in the bottomless-glee of the one unfairly snogging _her _girl, no matter who that person was.

Not that she ever saw them do this, not that Hermione talked about it if they did.

Harry and Roxie though, were another story entirely. After Ginny's lightening-bolt scarred friend had put in two weeks of what he called "Dursley-duty," he had decided to spend the rest of his holiday at the home of his best mates. Of course, it was only coincidence that his new girlfriend happened to be suitemates at Hogwarts with Luna Lovegood, who lived just an hour's walk from the Burrow. Also a coincidence that she happened to suddenly develop a rather close friendship with the blonde-haired Ravenclaw, one that earned her a summer invite coinciding with Harry's arrival.

Even the trees out front had seemed to turn a slightly lighter shade, in their embarrassment over the magical-hormones those two subjected all within view to, on a constant basis. Ginny herself wondered how they maintained the energy, since their mouths were rarely ever free long enough to take in some nourishment.

Still, it was nice to have Luna about, someone interesting to pass the time with, on those rare days when Ron and Hermione snuck off for an hour or two alone. Every time they did so, Ginny hoped it was just to gossip about Harry and Roxie, as she and Luna often did, and _not _to mimic them.

Every time they did so, she also tried to remind herself not to follow them and find out, partially for fear of what she might see, but more for fear of the hexes that might find a taller red-haired target if she saw something she didn't like.

Instead, she would stay with Luna, whose company always brightened her spirits more than a bit, even when it meant that she had to follow all the details of the Ministry's secret plans to build a defensive army of vampire-werewolf crossbreeds. She would listen, and nod, and laugh where appropriate, nursing the growing emptiness inside of her and counting down the minutes until her brother brought safely back her heart.


	3. Not One of 'Em

_Clutching her pillow case tightly and twisting it between the fingers of her left hand, Ginny pressed her eyes closed and lost herself in the static of brown hair brushing across her bare chest._

"_Oh Merlin, Oh Herm . . .," she whimpered once more, as soft lips left the trail of her breastbone and inched their way further south. Gasping, she felt her hips tense and then writhe beneath the teasing flicker of Hermione's tongue, the strum of her well-practiced fingers. _

"_Herm, Herm, please . . . I'm going to . . ." _

"Gin? Ginevra Molly Weasley, did you pass out on me _again_?," Ginny heard a familiar, distant voice huff just as the spine of a leather-bound book was rapped smartly against her shoulder, "Honestly, come on, it's not_ that _boring!"

Forcing herself awake, the red-head rolled over and pressed one still-inflamed cheek against the thigh of Hermione's jeans, refusing to open her eyes and silently willing the thumping of her heart to slow.

"Well?" the same voice prompted, before its owner nudged Ginny once more with the thick volume of revisionist fairy tales she had been reading aloud to her all morning.

"Just another minute," Ginny grumbled in reply. She prayed her voice carried only sleepy-innocence, and brokered no sign of the pleasure, nor the shame, she was now fighting off in equal measures. _Really, _she reflected, _one more minute was all it would have taken. One more moment in that dream and then I would have . . . _

But it was hopeless to speculate. In the past few weeks, many nighttimes and stolen naps had taken her to the same mythical, Hermione-filled universe, only to end in complete and utter frustration. Creative as Ginny mind might be, even _her_ imagination could not call forth the release that she so desperately needed, especially since it was one she had never actually physically experienced, despite how close the dreams brought her.

Not that Ginny hadn't tried to bring it about on her own. Twice in the shower last week. Twice more in the garden shed only yesterday. Each time spurred on by a similar fantasy and a lingering need to find it finished. _Really, _she chastised herself each time her fumblings failed her, _you'd think by my age, a girl would have this down to a science! _After all, if the stiff tube-socks that she had spent half of her life stepping over in her brothers' bedrooms were any indication, each of them had been a prodigy before their Hogwart's letters had even arrived.

Drawn to a mental halt by the grotesqueness of that particularly scary thought, Ginny finally managed to rouse herself free of her dream and the feelings it had once again stirred up in her. Shuttering, she faked a loud yawn to cover her previous unresponsiveness, and then rose from Hermione's lap to mimic a few convincing stretches.

"That's better, you drowsy git," her roommate's voice followed her good-humourly, "I mean, anything else I can see, but to fall asleep during a _book, _Ginny_, _and one you haven't even read . . . I can't imagine!"

"S'cause you steal the covers at night, no matter how many more I have mum bring up," Ginny muttered in reply, grabbing a pillow and snapping it teasingly at Hermione's unsuspecting form.

"Me? _I _keep _you _up?," Hermione teased back, catching the pillow and then wrestling Ginny down on the bed, "Who was it then, just last week, who gave my shin such a nice bruise trying to catch a Quaffle in her dreams, huh?"

"'Least I _can_ catch a Quaffle," Ginny retorted, trying to catch her breath and to struggle free of her now-laughing friend's hold.

She had just managed to snake an arm loose and to direct it toward the ticklish spot beneath Hermione's ribs, when the gravelly hum of a clearing male-throat stopped her and caused them both to sit up quickly.

"Sis?," Ron gruffed, stepping forward and tussling her fiery locks, "Mind, if I erm . . . borrow my girlfriend for a bit?"

Jerking away from her brother's hand, Ginny merely shrugged, afraid her voice would give away the irritation that had unwontedly doused her mirth, afraid it might tremble with the jealousy that had been her companion for nearly two months and that he, alone, inspired. Resigned to spend another solitary afternoon stewing in it, Ginny gave Hermione a gentle nudge and whispered under her breath, "Go on then; I'm alright."

Hermione, however, did not move from beside her. Instead, she let out a yawn that couldn't have been any more real than Ginny's earlier one, and then sweetly looked up at Ron and asked what it was that he needed.

"Thought we could, you know, take a bit of a walk or something," Ron replied, seemingly taken aback by the question. "I haven't seen you since breakfast and it's been a while since we've erm, well, . . . talked . . . You know, just the two of us," the youngest Weasley boy added, casting his sister a none-too-apologetic look that carried an undertone of _you simply can't understand what it's like to be young and in love. _

Yawning again, Hermione nodded, looking out the window for a moment before replying. "Of course, Ron, it has been a while. But Ginny's promised to let me finish this chapter," she explained, pointing to the book that had now fallen open onto the floor, "and then we'd better get downstairs for lunch. You heard your mum about needing everyone to help clean up before Harry's party tonight. How about first thing tomorrow; we can take a picnic down to the old playground, just me and you, catch up on whatever you want?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, tomorrow then," Ron mumbled quietly before smiling, more awkwardly now, up at Hermione and then turning to leave the room. At the doorway, he stopped, as if determined to turn and press his case further, but then he only gave his head the smallest of shakes, before putting another foot forward and disappearing into the hall.

A minute passed, then two, in which Hermione's eyes blankly stared at the doorway. Then, sighing, she too tussled Ginny's hair, though much more gently, before leaning off the side of the bed and picking up their discarded reading.

"Three more pages," the older girl teased again playfully, though with a slightly duller edge to her voice, "And you, _Miss Weasley, _had better keep your eyes open for all of them . . ."

* * *

Later that night, Ginny sat on a folding chair in the front garden, half-listening to Tonks and Lupin as they accepted Molly's advice on their upcoming wedding plans. Her belly full of snitch-shaped cake and her mind turning over that morning's memory, Ginny tried to steel herself in the contentedness of the friends and family around her.

She watched Harry and Roxie, for once unentangled, dab strawberry ice-cream from the front of their new matching Harpies t-shirts. Nearby stood her twin brothers, Fred and George, innocently smiling beside the empty carton, winking at the witches they had brought with them, both of whom were already nearly doubled over with laughter. Ginny watched Luna and Hermione, engaged in some heated debate that didn't quite reach her ears, as Ron sat a few feet away from them, popping pieces of Harry's birthday chocolates absentmindedly into his mouth. Just beyond the willow tree, she could make out the shape of Fleur and her oldest brother kissing.

Already, most of the summer had passed, and somehow she had survived it. _All in all, _Ginny thought, _it's been no worse than I expected. Hermione still spends most of her time with me, and only has eyes for him. _

_And yet, hopeless as it is, I can't help but still love her. _

Sighing, she studied the blades of grass she had been tying into knots in her hand, and then excused herself to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen inside. She'd had enough of the merriment, enough of the happy couples littering the yard.

If it weren't for Luna, she'd be tempted to think she was the only single witch left in England. As it was, at least Luna had prospects, her father's shy 17-year-old apprentice at the _Quibbler_ foremost among them. Just last week when she had inquired about the status of their hesitant flirtation, she had received from Luna a mere noncommittal shrug and the old tired proverb: "There are plenty of gnomes in the flower bed."

_Plenty indeed_, Ginny thought, finishing her drink and heading up the stairs to her bed, _and plenty quite beautiful at that._

_But not a single one of 'em worth half as much as the one I want. _


	4. Just for One Day

The next morning, crossly kicking up clods of dirt and cursing under her breath, Ginny made her way across the Burrow's front lawn. _Honestly, _she sulked, _it's bad enough that Hermione's gone off with Ron to do Merlin-only-knows-what, but does it have to be on the one day that Harry's sick in bed and Luna's stayed home to tend her radishes?! _

Yet, angry as Ginny was at her rotten luck, she knew that she had only one person to blame for the task before her. Sixteen years in the Weasley household, and she still didn't have the common sense given to a troll. After all, even a thick-headed club-carrier would have known better than to complain of boredom to _her _mum, that is unless it actually enjoyed such privileges as scrubbing out the broom shed.

_At least the work might make me forget Hermione for a bit_, Ginny lied to herself, jerking open the door. _At least it's some kind of distraction. _

The sun was already at its peak in the sky by the time the red-head dropped the last grimy rag in her bucket. Not a speck of dust, nor a single cobweb, could be seen through the haphazard rays of light escaping the roof's thatching. Along the right wall, seventeen milk crates were stacked neatly, each filled with an assortment of broken muggle tools and other oddments--ones Ginny's father could no longer find a use for, any more than he could find the heart to throw such 'treasures' away.

Along the left wall leaned only four Cleansweeps and a Firebolt. Ginny had polished the handles and trimmed the bristles of each one. She had even given the same care, against her better judgment, to the broom belonging to her youngest brother. One small bucking-hex, one tiny crack in the handle--the temptation had been there, might even have won Ginny over, if she hadn't remembered how much the Gryffindor team needed Ron to keep up with practice. If she hadn't been able to satisfy herself instead with collecting a jar full of the shed's eight-legged evictees, one she could put to better use later . . .

Content that Molly could raise no complaint against her effort, Ginny stretched her arms out stiffly, and then drew them back to examine the dirt beneath her nails. She was rather in need of a shower. Rather in need of some lunch.

Ginny was rather in need of a lot of things, but none so much as Hermione coming home.

* * *

An hour later, her stomach satisfied by soup and her body stained only by freckles, Ginny stood in the upstairs bathroom combing the last few tangles from her long hair. Then she turned to replace the brush and yelped in surprise, ducking and covering her breasts, when she noticed a head poking through what she thought had been a locked door.

"Ginny, what on earth are you doing in here?," Mrs. Weasley asked in a tone of impatience, "put something on and get to your room."

"But mum, I'm just trying to . . ."

"NOW, Ginevra," her mother interrupted sternly, tossing Ginny a large blue towel before turning back to the hall, "and for Merlin's sake, do try to be quick about it."

Annoyed but compliant, Ginny hurriedly wrapped the proffered covering around her torso. Then she sprinted across the hallway, ignoring the droplets of water still cascading down her form. _Only six people left in this blasted household and still a girl can't even get ten minutes alone to dry off! Bad enough that I had to share with half a dozen brothers most of my life ,but it's the middle of the afternoon and . . ._

Whatever new complaint her mind had been about to issue, however, Ginny never discovered. For as soon as she opened the door to her room, all of her thoughts were halted by the sound that met her ears. Hermione.

No, not just Hermione. Hermione _crying._

Forgetting that she was soaking and half-dressed, Ginny rushed over to the bed, pulling her best friend into her arms before it even occurred to her to ask, "Herm, what's wrong?."

Not that the inquiry or its timing made any difference, for Hermione only sobbed harder when the question left Ginny's lips. Still hoping, but not pushing, for an answer, Ginny sat in silence. One arm was holding Hermione close against her, the other was rubbing small, comforting circles up and down the girl's shaking back.

_Is it Jacob?, _Ginny wondered, _or a nightmare, or something someone said or did to remind her? Whatever it is, it's something mum thinks I should handle, so surely she hasn't been hurt or . . . but what if she wouldn't tell mum? What if something did happen, something horrible, while I was stupidly in the shower, day-dreaming about her instead of . . . _

"He . . .," Hermione opened then, pulling all of Ginny's attention back to her, "he broke up with me. Ron."

"Ron broke up with _you_?," Ginny repeated, more out of surprise than a need for confirmation, as a dozen new emotions overwhelmed her. Relief that it was nothing more. Shock that her own brother would be stupid enough to throw away something of such unimaginable value. Joy, then curiosity, then guilt tinged with grief.

The latter two won out. It didn't matter how much Ginny hated seeing them together, didn't matter if their love drove a wedge through her heart every day from now until the end of time. Nothing, _nothing, _was worth Hermione hurting. Settled in that thought, and refusing to linger on what it meant about her feelings for her friend, Ginny asked the one question still pressing on her mind. "Why?" Then she listened, without interruption as, bit by bit, Hermione tumbled her answer out.

"He . . . we went for a walk today. He wanted to talk a bit, kiss more, but I wasn't in the mood . . . and he, well, he said I was _never _in the mood, accused me of not loving him, asked me if I did . . . And I didn't want to hurt him . . . I do _love _him, but not like that, not like he wants me too, so I told him as much . . . and he, he said it was over . . . I was hoping he'd do it weeks ago," Hermione continued, "we never fought like this before, when we were just friends, but I didn't want to be to the one . . . didn't know how to end it. He said he didn't love me either, that maybe he had once, but not anymore."

When her best friend finished, still sobbing into her shoulder, Ginny sat quietly lost in a swirl of confusing thoughts. At first she didn't know what to say. Then, on a gamble, she gently offered up the first notion that she could catch a hold of. "But Herm, if you wanted this . . . I mean I know it has to hurt, and I'm sorry, but I don't understand . . . It's been ages since I've seen you cry so much, and you said yourself that you'd been hoping for it."

Hermione sniffed, nodded, clung closer to Ginny, but offered no answer. Minutes passed slowly, Hermione's tears did not stop, and the red-head, in her concern, was forced to press harder. "Herm, come on. Don't do this. It's me, Ginny. You tell me everything. Please, what's really the matter? And don't make me drag it out of you . . ."

Ginny expected an answer, any answer, any answer that is, except the one she received.

"I . . . it's just . . . I've wanted to tell you for so long, Ginny, really, but I couldn't. You've seemed so happy lately, thinking everything was okay with me, and I wanted to keep it that way. I know how much you care; I've always known. But it's not okay . . . I'm not okay. I mean, I know it wasn't my fault Ginny, and I'm glad I don't still have nightmares. But Jacob . . . raping me . . . it's changed me so much. And they can all see it--Harry, Ron, the other kids at school, even the ones who don't know. I've gotten better inside, but outside . . . I'm still a marked woman. Still used goods. Ugly, unlovable, no matter what they say. And I just thought that, even if I didn't love him, if Ron could see past that, think I was beautiful even though . . .but he doesn't, he can't . . . and no one ever will."

Stunned by both the rawness of Hermione's pain and the fact that she hadn't seen it sooner, Ginny again firmly voiced the first honest response that came to her mind, "Hermione, how could you think that? Ron might be a complete git, but no one, not even Draco Malfoy, is stupid enough to believe that you're _ugly_. Honestly, I've never met anyone more beautiful, inside or out, and if I had the chance, just for one day, to be with someone half as good as you, I'd . . ."

Ginny stopped, looked down at her towel, and hoped with everything inside of her, as Hermione pulled out of her embrace, that she hadn't said too much.

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Waited . . .

And then she felt it. Hermione's hand, soft and impossibly light on her cheek. Hermione's lips brushing with a static rush against her own. The soft opening. The warm mouth. A tongue tenderly begging entrance.

Hermione Granger was kissing her. Kissing _her_--Ginny Weasley--and she, like an escapee from one of her best dreams, was kissing Hermione Granger back.

Fiercely, softly, fully--Ginny lost herself in the tangle of mouths. Lost herself and then found herself, hoisted herself up, hand over hand, through a wave of brown curls. She tasted rapture, smelled eternity, felt love etch itself into her skin. A thousand tiny sensations, each of them ecstasy . . .

And then, just as quickly, each of them brought to a halt.

"I-I . . . I'm sorry," Hermione stammered, jumping back and then up, new tears in her eyes. "I shouldn't have."

The words wafted over to Ginny slowly, as if through water, breaking through her passion and bringing back first her senses, and then her voice. She called out to Hermione, reached out for Hermione. But by then it was too late.

The best thing that had ever happened to her was already gone. Out the door.


	5. Enough

It had taken Ginny less than two minutes to pull on her dirty t-shirt and jeans, disregarding the finer details like dry hair, undergarments, and properly laced trainers. Add five more minutes for checking all the upstairs bedrooms and then the bath--for frantic sweeping glances, the call of a name, the slam of a door. Then add one minute more--the Burrow has a lot of stairs.

Eight minutes total, give or take. And Ginny regretted each of them equally. For by the time she had skidded into the kitchen and caught her balance on a chair, all that remained of Hermione was a scattering of silvery glitter on the flagstones in front of the fireplace. A few lower flames still flickered bright green, taunting her to follow, but none of them told her where.

Uncertainty, however, had never been a strong enough force to quiet fear, to topple love, or to bring to a halt Ginny Weasley. After lacing up her shoes more properly, the red-head scribbled a note to her parents and filled her pockets with what was left of the powder. She'd start with the Lovegoods, and then pop into the Three Broomsticks. Try every shop in Diagon and Knockturn both, before screaming her friend's name down Charring Cross Road if she had to.

Determined as she was to take on the whole Floo Network though, in the end, the only thing Ginny had to battle was an over-hyper owl. "Pig," she scolded him, releasing the log she was intending to feed to the fire, "I haven't got any owl treats, so peck my bloody hand one more time and I'll stuff you up in one of Ron's old socks, learn a nice de-feathering charm, and find a stray cat to . . ."

Ignoring her, the ball of gray fluff bit on, squawking loudly and thrusting out his foot. Tied to it Ginny saw a tiny square of parchment, one which would have made her regret her threats, if she wasn't too busy unfolding, reading, and then reading again.

_~Gin, I'm going to see if Bill and Fleur will let me stay until the first. Please tell your mum.  
And, please Ginny, don't follow me and don't be mad. I really am sorry. Love, Herm~_

Pigwidgeon waited, ruffling all of his feathers as if to prove he was big enough to carry any reply. Ginny, however, merely gave his head a pat and turned back to the fireplace, only one destination left on her lips. _Don't follow me_, _indeed, _she thought, _and haven't I always done exactly what Herm's asked, everything she's asked? Not this time, not if she's hurting. Never again, until she sees what I see, 'til I've convinced her of what she's worth, whether or not I can have it._

Ultimately though, any words that might have done the trick went unexpressed. Ginny had argued with Bill, pleaded with Fleur, but Hermione would not be seen. She even threatened to spend her summer camped out on the stoop of Shell Cottage, living off grass and rain water, but Arthur only fetched her home at Molly's insistence, magically sealing the Floo Connection and rattling off a gentle lecture about boys, break-ups, and things needing time.

A week passed, then two, the days almost indistinguishable in their pattern of rain, sun, and sorrow. Nonetheless, Ginny faithfully crossed off each one on her bedside calendar, counting and recounting how many August still held.

At night, the red-head renounced the cold emptiness of her bed in favor of writing long letters to Hermione, ones she knew she would never send. During the day, she took long walks in the woods behind the Burrow, churning over the last and only words the other girl had sent.

_How can she even think I'd be mad at her for leaving, _Ginny wondered, _when I'm the one who made her have to? I know she's told mum and Bill that she just needed to get away from the Ron thing for a bit, but up until she kissed me, she wanted no other home. She's just so confused, so simply in need of love, and what do I go and do? Open my big mouth and make everything worse. Take advantage of her when she's vulnerable. Make promises she can't accept, try to turn her into something she isn't . . ._

When only ten days were left until the start of term, the results of Ginny's Ordinary Wizarding Levels arrived--six 'Outstandings' and two 'Exceeds Expectations'--along with a prefect badge and the promise of her very own owl. Although the news did nothing to ease the pain of Ginny's guilt, her parents were both ecstatic, bubbling over with the knowledge that all of their children had earned such an honor. Well, all but Fred and George, who more than made up for it in business-sense later. They even had a Head Girl in the family now to brag about, according to their oldest son's update on his new charge. And as far as Molly and Arthur were concerned, a celebration was certainly in order.

Set for the last day of summer, it was meant to include every Weasley. Charlie had already confirmed his flight plans; Percy had given a non-committal 'maybe' to his mother's suggestion that he take the day off from the Ministry. The residents of Shell Cottage would certainly have to be there too, especially since their number now included one of the honorees.

In her pride, Molly had even spared Ginny from helping with the preparations, beyond carrying in the shopping and picking out a new dress. As she zipped it up that night, Ginny admired the way that the forest green silk caressed her curves, the way the silver lacings cast a glint on her fiery hair. _At least I'll look presentable_, she thought, _although it'll be a shame if I have to spill something on this just to get Hermione alone. _

For that was Ginny's plan--to say her apologies privately and to plead for a return to normalcy before the start of school. She wouldn't take back what she had said, but she wouldn't pile her real feelings on top of it, forcing her sexuality on Hermione and denying her recovery a true and faithful friend. She'd convince the other half of her soul that the right guy _is_ out there, even help her to find him. She'd convince her that the kiss was understandable, unexpected, easily forgotten. In essence, she would lie . . . hoping beyond hope that their friendship could yet survive.

_Merlin help me do it, _Ginny sighed, stepping out into the moonlight and immediately catching the eyes of the one she had waited, day and night, to see. _She would have to look stunning, of course, make this harder. Honestly, you stupid git, don't melt! She's coming to talk to you. But that dress, that hair . . . how will I ever . . ._

"Gin?" The voice was music, light, the essence of air.

"Herm, you look . . ." Ginny caught herself. _Stay calm. Stick to the script._

But the script was lost and Hermione hadn't heard her. "Gin, can we talk? Alone? In your room?"

Ginny remembered nodding in agreement, remembered steps, drilled herself over and over on exactly what needed to be said. The door was open, then closed again. They sat a bit apart on the bed. Steeling her resolve and looking away from everything she wanted, Ginny broke the silence first.

"Hermione, listen, you're my best friend," she started quietly and steadily, determined to make things right.

But before she could continue, Hermione stood up, walked to the other side of the room, and turned her back on her. "Ginny, don't," she opened, her voice a blend of anger and tears. "I don't want to hear it. I've had a lot of time to think about exactly what happened, exactly what I'd say to you, and I need to get all of it out while I can. Then we never have to talk again."

The red-head felt a split in her chest, a stopper in her throat. This wasn't going as she had planned. _Don't? Never again? Hermione knows everything, knows it and hates me. I can hear it in her voice. _Ginny wanted to beg, to fall down on her knees and sob for forgiveness, but all motions became impossibilities, and listening was all she had left, more than she deserved.

"I was upset, Ginny," Hermione began again, "heart-broken when Ron ended it and said he couldn't love me . . . all for the reasons I told you. And then, well, what you said, I still remember every word of it . . . I don't think I fully understood it at first . . . caught up in the moment, stupid and trusting and needing anything to make the pain stop."

Hermione sat down, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back still turned and her voice beginning to waver, "But I get it now . . . what happened, what's been happening all this time, with me too dim-witted to see it. You were my best friend, Gin,_ best _friend . . . and I loved you. You did so much for me, after Jacob . . . I mean, if it weren't for you, I probably would have . . . I'd be with my parents, and not here in this room, trying to say something so impossible, bringing an end to what has meant so much to me for over a year . . ."

"Herm, I didn't, please I . . ." Ginny mumbled, finding her tears and hoping they spoke for her.

"Stop, Gin!" Hermione interrupted, the words forced sharply through her sobs. "This isn't easy. And I'll understand if you hate me when I'm through, but you have to let me say it. Not that that matters anyway. I hate myself enough for both of us. You don't get it, Gin," she went on, "You don't understand what it's been like. Every night I've slept in your bed, every day you've held me in your arms, saying you loved me like a friend . . . I know you still do, but I can't. I can't even remember the last time that I did . . . Harry, yes. Ron even. But not you.

"When we started dating . . . I don't know what I was thinking. His red hair, his sense of humor, his fierce protectiveness, his devotion to his family--I thought it would be enough for me. But it wasn't. I needed something more, something I didn't deserve, couldn't have . . . you, Gin. I wanted _your_ red hair, wanted _your_ sense of humor . . . and everything else that was missing in the Weasley that I ended up with. Damn it all to King's Cross, Ginny, I fell in love with you, months ago, a year ago, I don't even remember when. And I'm still in love with you. I'm sorry. I know you're not gay. I know I can't have you, but I couldn't lie to you anymore, not after all you've done . . ."

Her feet had left the bed, her body had transcended into some new plane of being, one where she too was on the floor behind Hermione, her arms finally at home where they belonged, wrapped around the most beautiful girl in the world. Ginny didn't have words, then had nothing but words, her shock and her sorrow crashing into this new Eden.

"I'm in love with you too."

"You . . . you love me?," Hermione protested, falling back against her chest, "But no one can, not like that, not after . . ._why_?"

"After, before, forever," Ginny declared quietly but firmly, "I love the way your nose crinkles when someone annoys you, the hunger in your eyes when you see a new book. The ten-syllable words that fall so casually from your mouth, the perfect slim line of your eyebrows, the way your hair can take over a pillow and your laugh can call stars from the sky . . . I love you because I can't _not _love you, Hermione. I don't know how, and believe me, I've tried."

Ginny expected more questions, more words, or more tears, but Hermione simply snuggled closer to her, until both of them were an inseparable tangle of silk and skin lying on the hard-wood floor.

_I'll devote the rest of my life to convincing her, _Ginny sighed to herself, accepting new kisses with a swelling of joy, _list all the hundreds of reasons I love her, one by one, if I have to. But for tonight, this is enough._

**A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews. I hope I may live up to them and please don't hate me for how dragged out this chapter was :-)**


	6. Saying I Love You

Ginny sat in the pool-like tub of the prefect's bathroom, her eyes closed against the steam and her head resting lightly on a stone ledge just above the froth of bubbles. Exhaustedly, she stretched out first one leg, then the other, feeling them buoyed up and soothed by the jets of multi-colored water pulsing around her. _My girlfriend's a bloody genius_, she thought, _next to her, this is just what I need._

With only four days left until their first match of the season, Harry had shed his amiable-friend robes in exchange for the jersey of an over-demanding captain. Extended practices, double drills, twenty laps around the pitch before breakfast--in all her three years with the Gryffindor Lions, Ginny had never seen him so worked up. _Probably, he wants to impress a certain black-haired beater_, she mused, though not without a hint of empathy. After all, the youngest Weasley knew why, at most practices, she had begun to push her own broom a bit harder than before. And yesterday that last bludger might not have found its target, if Ginny's own biggest fan hadn't distracted her from the stands.

Today, however, a surge of threatening storm clouds had kept Hermione up in their room, tucked safely in the pages of her Arithimancy text. Not that the rain had actually started until two minutes after Ginny had joined her, despite the very different story told by the red-head's uniform.

"Sweaty, much?," Hermione had asked, rising to tuck one damp strand of hair behind Ginny's ear before coyly planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Mmm-hmm," came the murmured reply, as Ginny peeled off her red leather chaser gloves. "And sorer than a mouth full of Hagrid's rock cakes to boot."

"Then," Hermione had said, pushing her away teasingly with one hand, "you ought to take a nice, hot bath, and give me something sweeter smelling to look forward to when I've finished all of this homework . . . "

So here Ginny was, obedient as ever, despite all her joking protests, despite all her subtle hints that a certain brown-haired witch might enjoy a bath along with her. Still_, the water's a balm for my muscles_, she thought, _though not as much as this last month has been for my heart_.

Sighing and slipping her head beneath the hot water, Ginny pictured those blissful four weeks in her mind, determined to be with Hermione in spirit, even if the consequences of Quidditch and classes once again kept them physically apart.

Since the beginning of school, every table in the library, as well as many desks, had done their part in helping the two girls guard their secret, providing ample cover for timid foot-play and the eager holding of hands. Likewise, many a corridor closet and darkened staircase had born witness to stolen kisses and whispered declarations of love. Thankfully, Hermione and Ginny had already shared a bed during the preceding year, so doing so now raised no concern in their roommate on the rare nights she left the Owlery. Not that either girl allowed her hands to roam before Vicki's soft snores met their ears. Not that, even then, they roamed far.

For no matter how intimate the two schoolgirls were in their words and clothed-gestures, Ginny was reluctant to push things yet further. After all, even in her bottomless trust, Hermione still would not even change robes in front of Ginny, a sign it was best to put her desires on a temporary hold. Nevertheless, those desires ran deep, and the red-head could feel her face flush with them as she rose from the water to fetch her scarlet robe.

Walking back up the secret staircase that led from the fifth floor bathroom into the hallway of Gryffindor tower, Ginny tried to soothe the passion sending shivers through her body by perusing a more chaste favorite memory--Hermione's birthday the week before. There had been the usual small cake in the Great Hall at dinner, shared by their whole group of friends. Molly and Arthur had sent Hermione the time honored Weasley coming-of-age gift, this one a silver pocket watch with a stack of books engraved on the front and tiny quills for hands.

A multitude of other thoughtful gifts preceded and followed that one, each bringing a larger and larger smile to Hermione's face. Finally, when her love was half-buried in discarded wrappings and ribbons, Ginny excused herself from the table, returning a moment later with a plain brown box held in her hands. Setting it down with the gentlest of care, the red-head bid Hermione to reach inside. _The look on her face alone was more than worth the trouble it took_, Ginny reflected.

Purchasing the right present had been easy enough, after Charlie told his sister where to find it and helped her to apply for the necessary license, after she had made her mum and dad understand why she needed it more than an owl. But getting it here--when it wasn't something Ginny could shove under a bed for a few weeks or convince any owl to carry--that had taken some work. For that one, she would have to remember that she owed Hagrid about a dozen favors.

_And there's the black-and-white flecked ball of fluff now_, Ginny mused, quietly slipping into her room and looking at the quarter-kneazle kitten curled up asleep in the corner. _And of course his gorgeous owner_, she sighed, lifting her gaze up to Hermione, who had her back turned to her and who was mimicking Weasel's position on the bed.

Unnoticed, Ginny stood there taking in the image of her girlfriend yawning and turning a page in her book. _How content she seems, how at peace, growing ever more so in this dream that we're building . . ._

"My love," the younger girl whispered, letting her voice be a warning so that she wouldn't startle Hermione when she crawled into the bed and wrapped her arms around her, "learn anything good?"

"This and that," Hermione purred, turning in Ginny's embrace and placing her head on her shoulder. "And you? Arms and legs all better?"

"That they are," Ginny said, "Though my back still feels like it's just escaped a tangle with the Whomping Willow."

"Been there myself, third year," Hermione laughed, "and it's nothing a well-earned massage won't fix."

"Well, if you're offering, I'll just get into my nightdress . . .," Ginny started, sitting up slowly, only to be cut off by Hermione placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking her head.

"Gin," she breathed, sending a shiver through the younger girl as she opened her robe and revealed her still-wet body, "you don't have to, not this time . . . ."

Her eyes held a devilish question, one Ginny wasn't quite prepared for. One which she could only answer with a nervous swallow and a slight nod.

Slowly, Hermione pushed the red-head down on her back on their bed, fishing her wand out of her pocket and casting a quick "_Colloportus_" at the door. It clicked, and Hermione smiled, before lowering her face and giving Ginny only the view of her forest of brown hair.

"Oh, my love, my everything . . ." Ginny murmured, trembling beneath the new sensation of the older girl's tongue on her nipple, her hands lightly caressing the taut flat of her belly. Ginny's mind reeled with the possibilities, afraid to want more, for never even in her least innocent of fantasies had any touch felt half this good.

But more was given, and she could only close her eyes against it, as Hermione's lips kept their purchase, as Hermione's hand found its way to a spot between her thighs. Gripping the sheets tightly with both hands, the Weasley girl spread her legs further apart, arching her back as her lover's fingers explored her, one rubbing small circles, another slipping inside.

"Herm, oh Herm, please," she moaned, as Hermione let go of her nipple and moved her head further south through a slow trail of kisses. But if the other girl heard her, she gave no indication, and in a few minutes more, her hand had been joined by the soft warmth of her mouth.

Lost in unimaginable ecstasy, Ginny could only focus on her breathing, as one finger became two, as Hermione's tongue picked up speed. "Please, whatever you're doing, please Herm . . . don't stop . . ."

And Hermione didn't, not until Ginny felt her thighs tense into knots, her stomach flutter with a spreading warmth. Not until she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming out in pleasure as wave after wave of release coursed through her body, Hermione riding with her through each one.

Then the older girl moved on top of her again, kissing her with a new fierce passion, letting Ginny taste herself, as her body recovered, her toes uncurled, and a contented exhaustion overtook her.

"And, we're calling that a massage, Hermione?" Ginny mumbled softly and teasingly once she had found her voice.

"We're calling it I Love You, and nothing else for now," Hermione purred back, falling onto her side and nestling herself into the crook of Ginny's arm.

"And you?," Ginny said, "Would you like to know how much I love you, Ms. Wonderful?"

But Hermione only yawned and said with a simple smile, "I already do."


	7. Helpless

As Ginny attempted to navigate her way through the clumps of scarlet-and-gold clad bodies littering the Quidditch pitch, she couldn't help but be caught up in their enthusiastic whoops and cheers. More than once a congratulatory thump on the back almost sent her sprawling face-first into the mud, but she didn't mind, not really. After all, it had been a rather close match, and if Ginny hadn't caught that last Quaffle by the tips of her fingers, hadn't knocked it forward at just the right angle and speed, seconds before Harry's own gloves wrapped around the snitch . . .

_Well, close or not, at least we've still got a seventh shot at the cup_, the red-head smiled, shielding her eyes against the downpour and crossing the last few steps to the castle. _Nevertheless, you'd think at least one of these troll-brains might have the sense to move this to the common room. Harry, maybe, or Ron even. He never did much like lightening, not since that stormy Halloween when Fred and George locked him up in the broom shed._

Ginny laughed at the memory--her brother's ashen eight-year-old face, his squeaky pleas to the twins for mercy, followed by promises to never, ever steal their candy again. But then, she reminded herself, of what a different world that was, a time before any of them could even spell the word "hormones." A time when courage meant riding one's broom beyond the yard, and not facing nature's wrath for some snogging.

For that, Ginny sensed, was what must be giving Ron this new bravery now. Just minutes after their victory had been announced, a few seconds after the Gryffindor chaser had fought her broom through the shouts and water-spray in the stands to find Hermione and to tell her that she'd meet her upstairs, she had seen them: Her black-haired captain with a winged gold ball in one hand and a Ravenclaw's midnight locks wrapped up in the other. Ron, a few feet away, matching Harry, grope for grope, with some brunette that his sister couldn't quite make out through the mist.

_Well, whoever she is, _Ginny mused, stepping into the shelter of the girls' changing room, _I do hope she makes him happy._

As she stripped off her sopping uniform, piece by piece, the red-head glanced around at the empty lockers and showers, taking in the stark silence and forcing her thoughts to turn from concerns about her brother's new girlfriend, back to the fears she now held about her own. Being the only female Lion left did have its advantages. And such post-match moments of solace were foremost among them.

_It was just so . . . so sudden, _Ginny remembered, removing one sock, then the other. _To go from kissing and holding hands to . . . all of that. There's no reason I should be complaining though, not with how good it felt. Good? Fuck 'good,' it was _amazing_. And Herm was the one that initiated it the first time, four nights ago after practice . . . _

_But why?, _she forced herself to consider once again, fighting back the lust rising steamily from the image, _What changed, and what does it mean? After all, Herm still won't let _me_ touch _her_, not like that at least. Tries to play it off, saying she prefers to please me, but I can see the fear in her eyes . . . Is she driven by a conviction that that's all I want? Thinks she has to, or I'll. . . but no, she seemed so proud, so happy to do it, so satisfied, each and every time she made me orgasm, and Merlin, there've been so many . . ._

However, no matter how many questions Hermione Granger's girlfriend asked herself, she could find no satisfactory answer. No explanation beyond the feeble few already offered up by the brown-haired girl herself: "Don't worry about me;" "Of course I understand that you'd wait, but really, Gin, I love it when you let me;" "Not this time, it's just these stupid headaches;" "It's just the wrong time of the month."

Ginny fished through her bag for a clean jumper and jeans, wondering if she dared to push the girl even harder. Not for Hermione to allow her access to her body, but rather for Hermione to give her the truth, the real reason she wouldn't so much as take off her shirt. _That is, of course, _she sighed, _if my love even knows it._

Standing to dry off further, Ginny eased her guilt via affirmations that she had, in fact, at least tried to learn more, to do the right thing. First through gentle questions and timid offers to take things slow; then through other means.

The Gryffindor girl had even spent the whole day before in the library, a feat for any Weasley, looking for books on trauma and recovery. Although she found a few mentions of rape here and there, mostly case law on Unforgivable Transgressions, she feared that the text she so wanted might not even exist. The one that explained how to love another through such a dark memory, how to understand each new nuance of pain, how to fight them off, one by one, in favor of showing the victim the full light of hope ahead . . .

_Of course, there is another book I could try, if I had it in me_, Ginny reminded herself, _the one tucked beneath our mattress, growing longer day by day_. But she couldn't make herself stoop that low, not unless a life or death situation warranted it. Tempting though it might be, her girlfriend's diary was simply out of bounds.

Lost in these thoughts, and shivering in the emptiness of the cavernous changing room, the red-head tried to pull her pants on quickly. Thus, as she was zipping them, she almost missed the sound of a soft footstep behind her.

"Hey," she smiled, turning, "I said I'd meet you up-..."

"Meet me where?," a male voice interrupted, adding teasingly, "and really Ginny, you don't have to cover up like that. S'not like I've never seen a pair before . . ."

"And you're not going to see these ones now!" Ginny snapped back angrily, taking a hesitant step toward her bag and then quickly pulling out her wand.

Chuckling, Dean Thomas shook his head, a light blush rising against his dark skin. "You always were an easily riled one. Okay, okay. Put your blasted shirt on then! I'll be the gentleman and close my bloody eyes."

"What are you doing in here anyway?," Ginny asked, still steamed, keeping her eyes on his face until the her breasts were once again beneath a sheen of cotton.

"I missed you, Ginny-kins, and it's not easy to get you alone, you know," Dean smirked, opening his eyes and stepping toward her.

"Don't call me that. And alone?," she replied, stepping back, "Why would you need to . . . I've already told you, Dean, I won't go there. Won't do that. Not when we were dating, and certainly not now."

"Listen, okay. I get it. Marietta and Cormac last year, got half the witches in here terrified they'll have to manage their N.E.W.T.s while hiding a swollen belly. But, honestly, it was just one fight, Ginny-kins, not something worth breaking up over, not after how long we had in, how long I patiently waited, getting nothing for it and barely complaining."

"Besides, I got us a little something over the summer, something to make sure it won't happen to us if you're still worried," he added, stepping closer again, and pulling what was unmistakably a condom from his pocket.

Gripping her wand tighter, Ginny felt the hard, cold lockers against her back, saw Dean right in front of her. Swallowed. _This is Dean, _she reminded herself, stalling the panic that ran hexes through her mind, _he'd never hurt you. How many times did he beg, you saying "no," giving him excuses until he simply gave up? Surely, he wouldn't . . ._

His voice interrupted her. It was still light and low. "Gin? Ginny-kins? Come on. We're meant for each other," he whispered, leaning in for a kiss.

She dodged it, stepped away, breathed when he didn't pursue. "Stop it, Dean. NOW. It's through. I told you last spring, and I'll say it one more time. I want nothing to do with you, nothing. You know why we really broke up, and . . . ."

"Oh, come on, Ginny," he interrupted, sitting down sulkily on the bench,, "I thought maybe if you weren't afraid to . . . please tell me this is not still about _her._"

"And if it is?"

"For Merlin's sake!," Dean shouted, throwing down the condom and squaring his shoulders in anger. "Nearly a year we spend together. I say one thing, _one thing_, that everyone else was already saying . . ."

"Everyone was _not,_" Ginny replied, her own voice rising, "At least not anyone worth talking to. You called my best friend a _whore_, Dean. Forgiveness is NOT negotiable."

"I didn't get the impression you two were even very close. And besides, my mum had only wanted to warn me . . . She heard from someone at the ministry, someone high up, that Hermione slept with about a dozen of her father's servants and that she even . . ."

"Whatever your mother heard, it was a lie!" Ginny roared, drawing more courage from her need to protect her girlfriend than she had been able to from her need to protect herself. "And you're an ass for repeating it. I swear, Dean Thomas, if you ever, ever say something like that about Hermione Granger again, I'll curse off your manparts and hide them so far in the forbidden forrest . . ."

"Alright, alright, enough! You don't want me? Fine. _I_ can do better." Dean spat, "But I'm warning you, Weasley, keep going around with that one and you'll never get another guy. Keep those legs closed so tightly, and you won't long keep him if you do. Merlin, you act like you're in love with her or something, the look on your face," he finished, bitterly, turning to storm from the room when he saw sparks lighting the tip of her wand.

_Right about one thing for once_, Ginny thought, knowing her ex had only been to trying get a rise out of her, that he didn't really know the truth.

When he was gone and she heard the door slam behind him, the red-head sunk down against the lockers to try to quiet her still thumping heart. _How afraid I was, to think that Dean might . . . when I knew he would never actually, _Ginny thought,_ when I had my wand and the whole school to scream for. How much more terrifying must it have been for Hermione? All those three months, knowing what was coming and not being able to . . . no wonder she's so afraid of it, afraid of anything that might remind her body of where's it been. I'll never know what that's like. And although I'd give my life for her, I might never be able to change it . . . _

Ginny closed her eyes against the thought of it, overwhelmed by her love for Hermione and the helplessness it inspired, unsurprised when she felt the tears sting them.


	8. Hogsmeade

Ginny leaned her head back against the common room couch, snapping shut her _Standard Book of Spells: Year Six _and staring into nothingnesss through the frost that coated the window. With six N.E.W.T. level classes, her workload had grown exhaustingly heavy, so much so that the red-head was in the library almost every night that Harry didn't hold a practice, for hours on end. _Not that that's much of a change for me really_, Ginny thought, _except before my focus wasn't exactly on books but rather on the feel of a certain brunette's hip pressed against mine under the table. _

_But now, _she sighed with a bittersweet smile,_ that's just an added benefit. _

At the present, however, the Weasley girl had all of winter break ahead of her and didn't really need to study. Her textbook was just the most convenient means of passing the time until Hermione finished changing into something warmer. Until the two of them could join the queue of students gathering in the Great Hall below, all of them anxious for one last adventure in Hogsmeade before going home for the holidays.

That morning, Harry, Roxie, and Ron had invited the girls to join them at Madam Puddifoot's, a spot insisted upon by Lavender Brown, who unfortunately happened to be her brother's current witch-of-the-week. However, Hermione had declined politely, set in her determination to efficiently cross off every item on her neatly penned Christmas list, before boarding the Hogwart's Express the next morning.

Personally, Ginny couldn't have been more relieved. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy their company, well _three_ of them at least; it was just that the cozy little teashop held too many bad memories, most of them arguments with Dean. Not that she'd seen much of the boy since their last one.

Reflecting back on that night, Ginny remembered how long it had taken her tears to stop and the spell she had cast to take most of red from her eyes, before slinking back upstairs. Her girlfriend, quick and perceptive as always, of course noticed that something was wrong; however, the red-head was able to play it off as weariness, to convince her better half to call it a night early, to join her in bed. In that moment, Ginny only wanted one thing--to hold Hermione, hold her tightly and never let her go.

As tired as she really was, it was a long time before Ginny fell asleep that night, and when she did, her own nightmare came. Not one about Dean Thomas, for that fear had passed quickly enough. After all, her ex-boyfriend hadn't so much as threatened her, had only been his annoyingly hormone-charged self, despite where a day spent pondering her girlfriend's situation had caused Ginny's thoughts to run.

No, this nightmare was about Hermione. Hermione bruised and naked in a hazy far-away bed, screaming her name and begging to be rescued. Ginny trying to reach her, scrambling over thickets and brambles in the dark, but never getting any closer to the window she saw her through. Choking back tears in her helplessness as a menacing shadow moved steadily closer to the only girl she could ever love . . .

She didn't want to remember it, to remember how she had woken up drenched in sweat, her mouth dry and every nerve on edge. How in her terror she had clung to Hermione, gently enough not to wake her, but tightly enough to reassure herself that her girlfriend was, in fact, still there, still safe.

Ginny hadn't told Hermione about the dream or what had preempted it. Hadn't wanted to add any more to her burden by bringing those pictures to her mind. Especially not now that the brown-haired witch no longer woke up screaming in the night, no longer jumped out of her skin when someone touched her unexpectedly, or left the common room to cry when someone told a dirty joke.

_She is getting better, if slowly, _Ginny thought with relief, breaking out in a smile as she watched the holder of her heart finally walk into the room.

"Ready?" Hermione asked, playing with the string hanging off of one of her midnight-blue mittens.

"Always," Ginny replied, adding to herself, _for anything as long as it's with you. _Then she gave the room a sweeping glance, checking to make sure that they were completely alone before putting her arms around her bundled-up girlfriend and accepting a light kiss on the cheek.

* * *

Trampling over the impressions that other students' footsteps had left in the muddy snow, Ginny made her way back down High Street, taking in the woody smell of roasting chestnuts and the flickering lights of the candles in the Pines along the road. _How quaintly beautiful this place still is, _she thought, _though much less so than this afternoon, when I had my girlfriend beside me. _

_For that, _she added, _it'd better be some surprise of a present Hermione's picking out, not even letting me wait outside Dervish and Bange's! Ah, well, at least she chose a decent enough place to meet me, somewhere I can't be too bored, I suppose. _

Reaching that destination, Ginny stopped to re-lace one boot, then cast an appraising glance at the spot that had once held Zonko's Joke Shop. Though the exterior of the building retained much of its familiar appearance, Ginny suspected that the same could not be said of the inside. Not after her twin brothers had taken it over last month, finally realizing their dream of opening a Hogsmeade extension to Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

Ginny jerked back the door handle and felt warm air rush over her, smiling to herself when she realized how right she had been. For the instant she stepped inside, she was surrounded by echoes of rambunctious laughter, wafting up from the countless cloaked students packed between the neon-orange shelves.

Each was filled to the brim with a rainbowed array of objects, some popping, some flashing, more than a few jumping at the heads of shrieking third-years. There were the usual Skiving Snackboxes and Anti-Gravity Hats, resting above barrels of trick wands and Ton-Tongue Toffees. Some new items too--stuffed owls that nipped at your fingers when you tried to pet them, striped knickers lined with an itching spell.

Ginny stopped to examine one particularly queer looking item, a fist-sized translucent orb with a twist-off top covered in odd red markings. Inside of it, a strange silver smoke swirled at a dizzying speed.

"Ah, better be careful with that one," Fred and George chimed in unison behind her, almost startling Ginny enough to make her drop it. "Last one to touch it was Zacharias Smith, and who knows what _he_ put in there."

"What does it do?" Ginny asked suspiciously, setting the ball down quickly and then watching the smoke drift out as one of her brother's snatched it up and removed the top.

"Memories," they answered, again in harmony. "Longbottom gave us the idea third-year, took us 'til now to prefect it."

Ginny had always hated that they could do that. After all, it was hard enough to tell the two young men apart, so the least they could do was speak one at a time. Nonetheless, her curiosity overtook her annoyance, and she bid her siblings to continue.

"It's the We-Remembrall 2000, like a pensieve for your pocket!," they exclaimed proudly. "Turns the color you choose, upon purchase, each time you've forgotten something important, _and _it has a storage feature to boot. Any memory--fifteen minutes or shorter-- that you think you'll be wanting later, just pop it inside, then press this button here, and presto! You're there."

"Amazingly clever," a nearby voice laughed, interrupting them, "I wish I would have had one of those when I was prepping for my History of Magic O.W.L." Ginny turned at the words, her heart swelling immediately from her recognition of their owner.

"Sorry, Gin," the boys kidded her with a wink and a swat on the shoulder, "Have to go greet our _favorite _sister . . ."

When the twins had done so and then left to help other customers, Ginny simply sidled up next to Hermione, noting her lack of packages and suspecting she had made a stop by the Post.

"So," she whispered sweetly in her girlfriend's ear, pulling her close into a hug, "I don't know about you, my love, but I'm completely spent. Wanna have a quick look around the shop and then slip off to someplace more quiet, just me and you?"

"Gin!," Hermione exclaimed teasingly under her breath, a blush rising to her cheeks, "Not in public! Besides, I've already seen enough of this place, trying to find you. Of course," she added with a smirk, "I didn't quite make it to the lavatory, if you'd be willing to show me the way . . ."

Ginny had agreed, with a blush of her own, before pushing her way through the clutter of customers, all the while resisting the urge to take and hold Hermione's hand. Finally, they were inside the girls' room, with the door solidly shut and a nonverbal locking charm placed upon it.

Leaning up against one of the sinks, Ginny smiled coyly, her eyes telling Hermione exactly how exquisite she thought the girl looked with her hair falling haphazardly around the shoulders of her winter cloak. Hermione returned the expression, leaned in closer and lightly ran one thumb across Ginny's lips.

A moment later the red-head had closed her eyes, lost in the warmth of her girlfriend's tongue exploring her mouth, the pleasure of mitten-clad hands caressing her lower back. _I almost forgot how wonderful she tastes, in that hour we spent apart, _Ginny though, _like strawberries picked from a mint field, after a light, fresh rain. _

Pressing against her more tightly, Hermione pulled out of the kiss and moved her lips to Ginny's neck, murmuring what might have been "I love you" if her ears weren't too clouded by a woolen hat to hear clearly. The red-head opened her eyes again, overwhelmed by pleasure and planning to return the words, no matter what they had been . . .

But in that instant Hermione stopped, jerking away from her so suddenly that Ginny nearly toppled over onto the cold stone floor. "Herm, hon, what's wrong . . ." she started, drawing in a sharp breath when her eyes met an unfamiliar pair of boots.

Then, she too inched further away from the girl she loved, trying to put on a mask of innocence and to come up with some words of excuse just in case. _Damn it, _her heart thundered, _why did we so stupidly assume that "quiet and dark" meant "empty," instead of checking each and every bloody stall!"_

Taking a deep breath Ginny braced herself and clung to the hope that whoever else was in the room had seen nothing, had heard nothing, and now knew no new secret to share.

However, the second she looked up, each of those hopes fled her. Whisked away, one by one, by the look of shock on Lavender Brown's face.


	9. Noticed

Ginny stifled a yawn and forced her eyes to focus once again on the words in front of her, "Discovered by Delida Diddle in 1704, the Wrought-Spoke potion initially contained only four of the seven herbal ingredients held by its modern caustic form . . ."

Really, this was all trivial gibberish as far as the red-head was concerned, and she wasn't much in the mood for schoolwork. Not even if that schoolwork was Hermione's and she was just an intermediary, reading the words aloud at the request of her beloved girlfriend. The same girlfriend who was, at this very moment, folding each of Ginny's robes into perfectly symmetrical squares and stacking them neatly in her trunk.

Pausing to mark the page with a finger, Ginny cleared her throat and tried to take another stab at the conversation that they'd slipped in and out of all evening, ever since leaving Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

"Herm," she started, "Do you honestly think she'll . . ."

But Hermione was ready for it, and merely repeated, without even looking up, the same reply she had already given countless times, "She said that she wouldn't."

Ginny nodded, closed the book, and tried again, "But this is _Lavender _we're talking about, not exactly a witch known for her silence. _And_ she's dating my brother. Maybe we should have just obliviated her when we had the chance. Still could, I suppose . . . slip into her room a bit later; you being such a genius with unspoken spells . . ."

But Hermione just shrugged, maintaining the same eerie calm that she had shown all evening, an apathy to their predicament that Ginny found a bit difficult to comprehend. Sighing, the red-head watched as her love first checked the straightness of a seam, then gave it a satisfied nod, and finally, returned to her folding. She didn't know what else to say.

A minute passed, then two, before Ginny picked back up _An English History of Potions, _feeling defeated. However, the moment she had found her place on the page, the mattress shifted beneath her and a soft hand found its way to her shoulder.

"Gin," its owner said, slowly and quietly, "Would it be so bad? If people knew? It's not like we can keep it a secret forever."

_Forever_, Ginny liked the sound of that on Hermione's lips. Not so far as secrets were concerned, but rather for the images it brought forth concerning the possibilities of their relationship.

"I mean we don't have to decide right now," the older girl continued, taking the text from Ginny's hand and guiding her down to where they could spoon on the bed, "and maybe you're family isn't the best place to start, but . . . I wouldn't mind so much, telling one or two people, telling everyone for that matter, about how lucky I've been to find this, to be with you, after, well, everything."

Ginny had nodded into Hermione's hair, involuntarily purring inside at the sweetness of the unexpected words and their sentiment, nestling her face further into the lilac-and-honey scent left by her girlfriend's shampoo. She knew that she was the lucky one, and she told Hermione as much, whispering an endless stream of compliments against her upturned ear. Ones that spoke of joy and completeness, wit and valor, love and a few of its more physical gifts.

Nonetheless, as she lay awake later that night, Ginny couldn't help but question the truth of her earlier agreement. _It's not that I'm unsure, _she thought, running her fingers lightly and soothingly over Hermione's sleeping arm, _not about my sexuality and certainly not about my feelings for this one. Granted, once upon a time, I had thought something was terribly wrong with me . . . when Dean's most passionate kisses only left me a bit empty and bored, when my eyes would stray to Angelina Johnson in the changing room, causing a sensation to run through my loins that had nothing to do with Quidditch . . . but that was a long time ago. Before I had accepted it as just the way I am--not good, not bad, and ultimately unchangeable._

_But is Hermione really that way too?, _Ginny questioned, shaking the resistant thought from her head and reminding herself exactly who it was that initiated their relationship in the first place, _Or is it just that I'm concerned about what others will say to her when they discover it? After all, the other rumors have only just recently died down, and look how far a bit of normalcy has taken the one I love . . . Or is it myself I'm more selfishly worried about. Am I afraid things will return to how they were my second year, after Riddle's diary had possessed me, during that brief period of time when only my brothers and a few select other Gryffindors could look at me without fear and disgust in their eyes? _

As the night grew darker and crept into morning, Ginny continued to turn the problem over in her head, but in the end, she could only arrive at two solid conclusions. The first was that no matter how proud she was to be with the best looking and brightest witch in all of Hogwart's history, she wasn't sure the timing was quite right to scream that news from the rooftops. The second was that nothing she pondered really mattered, and coming out was a foregone issue.

For no matter what her girlfriend claimed afterwards, they both had clearly sensed that Lavender was only matching them lie for lie, when they embarrassedly mumbed, "We've only been practicing," when the girl gleefully replied, "Oh, I understand . . ."

They had also both seen the smug smirk clinging to her pronouncement of "We'll just keep it between us girls," the light of gossip's intrigue lingering behind their housemate's final wink.

They both knew their secret was over, the moment that they unlocked that door.

* * *

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes the next morning, Ginny arched her back in an attempt to crack it, and watched for a while as Hermione puttered nervously about the room, checking under beds and behind wardrobes.

"Whatever we've forgotten," the red-head finally pouted with a yawn, "it'll still be here in two weeks, Herm! So come on back to bed for a minute. _Please? _The sun's barely up, and I want a snuggle before breakfast."

Hermione turned from the bedside drawer she was rifling through, closing her eyes and blushing, "Well okay, five minutes then, but no longer, my sleepy-beauty. After all, you were the one that practically _insisted_ we get up at this un-godly hour, that we make it to the Hogwarts Express before everyone else, securing a well-hidden and empty compartment."

"I can't help but prefer my trains empty, not after yesterday," Ginny grumbled.

"Beds, however, I feel quite differently about . . ." she added in teasing tone, before grabbing Hermione's hand playfully and tugging her back down beside her, where she belonged.

"Five minutes," Hermione repeated in a mock-stern voice, running a finger through Ginny's messy tangle of red hair and lowering her mouth to her earlobe. "And not one second longer."

An hour later, Ginny had forced herself to finally get up and get dressed, feeling more than ever in need of the shower and nap that there was no longer time for. Their trunks were already filled and locked, to be left for the castle's house elves to send along to Hogsmeade Station. And Hermione had already managed to reassemble herself quiet nicely, although Ginny couldn't help but feel that the other girl had a slight advantage in doing so, never having gotten undressed in the first place.

"Your fault if we don't make it," the brown-haired witch brightly laughed, tossing her girlfriend a pair of clean socks before bending to check the laces on her own boots, "You had to go and tempt me . . . As it is, we're going to have to run now to get to the train on time, and everyone else will have long ago boarded."

Fifteen minutes later, however, as the pair reached the platform of the station, panting and sweating beneath their winter cloaks, Ginny immediately noticed that this was not the case. Rather, a large group of students, most of them wrapped up in scarlet-and-gold scarves, were standing about in small groups, whispering excitedly and ignoring the steam rising around them, as well as the insistent, loud whistle that implied "all-aboard-promptly-or-else."

All of those that weren't in one of the louder huddles, Ginny observed, seemed to be reading a copy of the same light-pink piece of parchment. So, spotting a wet and crumpled look-alike on the ground, she had no choice but to pick it up, tugging Hermione back a bit gently, and hoping they could figure out what was going on before having to interact with any of their fellow students.

_As if I didn't already suspect, _Ginny grimaced, seeing the first few words, _though I honestly thought even she'd have a bit more taste than this. _

Feeling her heart drop into her stomach, Ginny gripped her wand tightly, forcing herself to finish the notice in her hands:

_**Attention Gryffindor Students and Parents:**_

_**We want to make you aware of something disturbing happening in your house!!! Yestirday Lavender Brown was forced to watch as **_**_Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger almost all but had sex in the middle of a Hogsmeade shop. When questioned by the poor, concerned girl, both announced __that were lesbians and __that they_**_** plan to seduce as many of their housemates as they can this year. **_

_**The school understand that such behavior is not illegal in the wizard world but taken to this extreme it can be very bad for the girls who are forced to share where they bath **__**and sleep with these too. If you agree please write to the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, straight away . .** ._

It went on a bit further, but Ginny had seen enough. Enraged, she tore the parchment in four, tossed the pieces on the ground, and took a determined step forward, ready to curse anyone that got between her and her brother's girlfriend.

Hermione, however, stopped her, wrapping her up in a hug from behind. "Gin, it's not real," she said soothingly, patiently, "Just some twit's idea of a nasty joke. Don't let it get to you. From the word choices and spelling errors alone you can tell the school had nothing to do with it. Besides Dumbledore would never . . ."

"But how many . . . that bitch . . .," Ginny interrupted her, stuttering angrily, as Hermione held her firmly in place. "Harry, Ron, my parents . . . and we were only kissing, just kissing. . . I'm going to . . ."

"It's not worth it, my love," Hermione sighed evenly, maintaining her strange decorum of calm, "and I don't even see any of our friends out here. Maybe they don't know yet, and besides it'll be so much easier this way . . . once break is over, once all this has blown over. Surely your family will understand, with some time."

As the train's whistle gave a final blow and the groups of students beyond them broke up to board, however, Ginny immediately saw that this was not the case. For in that second, Ron appeared, standing alone by the door, his scrunched up face as flaring red as his hair. The lankly boy stood rigidly, his breath sputtering out in visible puffs of steam, his arms crossed in waiting.


	10. Going Home

Ginny hesitated, then placed one hand carefully over Hermione's, releasing the measured breath that signified it was okay to let her go.

"I should go talk to him," the brown-haired girl argued quietly, nonetheless reclaiming her arms and stepping around to stand beside her girlfriend.

But Ginny just shook her head, her eyes still on her brother. _I know that Weasley temper_, she thought, finding her wand once again with her hand, _just not which one of us it'll want to get at first. _

When the red-head stepped forward, however, she felt Hermione grab her shoulder gently, stopping her short. "Together?," the other girl asked then, her voice still cool and calm.

Ginny's lips formed an answer, a less eloquent version of _in everything else, my love, everything _after_ this, I promise. _But the words never let her mouth. For in that moment, the last straggler boarded, and Ron's eyes found the spot where the two girls stood beyond the platform, under the snow-covered trees. His scowl immediately deepened, as he struck a foot forward, headed their way.

"Together," Ginny agreed haltingly, resigned to the fact that the choice was now no longer hers to make. "But get behind me," she added in a protective whisper, "I know he's your friend, but, Herm, I've seen this look before . . ."

Hermione, however, didn't move, not even when the scarlet-faced boy reached them a minute later, both of his hands balled into tight fists, the right one shaking a crumpled piece of pink parchment a mere ten inches from her face.

"Is this true?," he implored, his voice barely concealing a quiet, building rage.

"Ron, look at me, I can explain . . .," Ginny started; she was ready for such a greeting but had to trail off in her uncertainty of how to best defuse it. Her brother, however, didn't look at her, didn't hear her, seemed almost unaware that she was even there. He had eyes that glared wetly, and for Hermione alone.

"Is. It. _TRUE_?," Ron asked again, his final word a solitary, grief-filled shout.

Ginny held her breath, watched as her girlfriend looked down and nodded slowly. Then she readied herself to quickly jump between them if her sibling so much as twitched one knuckle closer to the girl she loved.

She wasn't quick enough though. For less than a heartbeat after Hermione's head had confirmed the gist of Lavender's words, Ron's right arm lowered. Then it sprung forward again forcefully, crashing into the trunk of the Pine to their left. There was a dull crunch of broken bark meeting bone, and Ginny watched the boy crumple, into a near-sobbing mass with his knees drawn up in the snow.

Hermione approached him, reaching out to check the bloodied hand held gingerly against his heaving chest, but Ron pulled fiercely away from her, his face unreadable. Then he simply spit out four bitter words: "Don't touch me, you . . ."

But whatever he thought Hermione was, neither of the girls heard, because Ron's fifth and final word was taken up by the screech of grinding gears. The screech signifying that their train home was already beginning its long journey down the tracks.

* * *

An hour later, Ginny and Hermione sat a few feet apart on a chilly stone floor, back in the familiar washroom of Hogsmeade's newest joke shop. Neither Fred nor George, nor the both of them in unison, had asked for an explanation when their sister had first shown up here, pounding frantically on a window and shouting about an injured Ron taking off down the road.

Furthermore, from the persistent questions Ginny later overheard the twins' badgering the younger boy with, to no avail, it was clear that Ron had not said a word when they found him and fetched him back, when the full strangeness of the situation finally hit and piqued her older brothers' curiosity.

At the present, however, it had been some time since any sound had come through the door crack from the shop beyond. And the silence only gave Ginny's worries a greater mental space to roam around in: _Will Fred and George Floo us home before they get the full story?_, she wondered,_ or do they know already? And what will they think if they do, when they find out that it was here, in their store, that Herm and I . . . or is Ron planning on telling mum and dad first? Does he still have one of those bloody notices? Will they believe the lies Lavender put in there? And what about the true part? The one that says that their only daughter is gay, well, both of their daughters technically . . . Hiding it is one thing, but lying to my parents' faces . . . _

"You've been awfully quiet," Hermione said softly, interrupting Ginny's thoughts, then edging her body sideways until she had closed the gap between them and could take her hand.

"And you've been awfully calm," the red-head replied, meaning it more as a question than the statement of fact that it sounded like, and was.

Hermione shrugged, her mouth playing silently with unformed words, as if she understood the intention of Ginny's statement but didn't quite know how to answer it yet. Finally, the movements of her lips carried sounds, and with them, the explanation her girlfriend sought. "Gin, I . . . listen, you know I really care about you, right?"

On impulse, a small smile broke out on Ginny's face, and she laid her head on Hermione's shoulder, nodding against the scratchy wool of her girlfriend's cloak. _I do. _

"And because I care about you," Hermione said firmly, "the last thing I would want is for this--us dating--to cause any problems for you, especially with your family. Not that I think they'll all react like Ron, maybe not, and not that his reaction doesn't bother me. I don't know, I guess the reason I'm so calm . . . it's just that, for so long, I had so many secrets. For half a year, I had to lie, over and over, to everyone that I loved. And then," Hermione continued more softly, while fiercely gripping Ginny's hand, "you came along. We were sitting on a lavatory floor, just like this one, remember?"

Ginny nodded again, remembering that hazy afternoon that she had skipped an important Quidditch match. When she had run after Hermione instead, burning with the need to resolve fears even more painful than the ones pressing down on her now. The memory made her hold her girlfriend a bit closer as she listened.

"That day, Ginny," Hermione went on, accepting the tightened embrace without pause, "you made me tell you everything, forced me to do it, even though I didn't want to, and, I . . . it's hard to describe how much of a difference it made. I didn't even realize the full extent of it at first, of you knowing, of you actually wanting to know, and then still loving me after . . . Then, there was the trial, that toad's information leaks and the new rumors that cropped up . . . They hurt, Gin, they still hurt, but at least this time, if people are going to think less of me, if people are going to whisper and call me names . . . at least this time it'll be for something that really _is _my fault, for something completely true, and something that makes me, well, happy."

"Are you happy? Really?," Ginny asked, unable to stop herself. For although she was touched beyond measure by her girlfriend's words, she couldn't help but give voice to the small fears that had been nagging at her, ever since their relationship had gotten more physical, ever since she had started wondering when, and if ever, that part would go both ways.

Hermione, however, did not answer, for in that moment the lavatory door opened, revealing George (_or is it Fred?, _Ginny wondered) on the other side.

"Alright there?," he asked, looking first at Hermione and then at his sister, "One of you want to tell me what all this is about?"

Neither answered, nor did they let go of one another.

"Right then," whichever twin it was continued after a long pause, "Not talking, eh? Same as your brother. Well, we've fixed up his hand alright; little prat nearly broke all the bones. 'Course mum'll be wanting a look at it just the same. And good luck to you two, dodging _her _questions. But anyway, the Floo's all set up if you're ready. Fred's sending Ron through now."

Ginny nodded, stood, and took Hermione's hand to pull her up. Then she walked with her back across the room, not letting go until the twins tossed a large handful of sparkling silver powder onto the flames and spoke the word that would cause Weasley Wizard Wheezes to spin out from beneath first Hermione, and then herself.

Stepping out of the dizzying bright green flames, the red-head attempted to brush her robes clean with one hand. Meanwhile, she took in the stuffy, candle-lit kitchen, crammed full of hanging herbs, burnished pots, and the generous honey-colored table that always sheltered at least a dozen mismatched chairs. It was her favorite room in the Burrow. The room where her mom had sat with her on the floor when she was still too small to see over the countertop, teaching her letters and numbers and snippets of simple magic. The room where her father had stood at the window reading muggle magazines on quiet summer evenings, secretly playing guard while she snuck one of her brothers' brooms from the shed to practice Quidditch. _How much they loved me then, and still do, _she mused, _Could anything really ever change that? After all, even Percy . . ._

Ginny heard a delicate cough, turned, and saw the kitchen in a new light. Now it no longer held memories of only her family's love. Now it was also the room where the most beautiful witch in the whole world stood, shaking the soot from her own hair, and awaiting Ginny's arrival on this snowy December day. Seeing Hermione and only Hermione, cast in the shadows of this well-loved place, the red-head felt, if possible, more at home than she ever had before. She couldn't resist wrapping the girl up in a hug and thinking of the thousand new memories she wanted to make, with her, on this hearth.

She also couldn't resist admitting that Hermione had been right, that after all the grim secrets she had kept from those she loved, they deserved to know now what filled her heart with such joy. "I'm ready," the red-head whispered, still unsure but suddenly determined, "ready to tell them all of the best decision I've ever made."

"_We've_ ever made," Hermione corrected her with a gentle laugh, pulling out of the hug and wiping a single smudge of ash from Ginny's nose with her thumb. "So . . . together?"

Ginny nodded, unable to draw her eyes away from how happy the other girl really did look in that moment, despite the question her girlfriend hadn't had time to answer earlier, despite all of the other questions still lingering around the impacts that her best-loved Hermione's past might still have on their future.

_One obstacle at a time, _she reminded herself, _and taken on together, how bad can this one be? _

Then she heard a door slam above and the shout of a still-angry male voice, "Ask your bloody _daughter_ if you want to know so badly!" It was followed by footsteps on the stairs, the slow and steady clicks that spoke of a Weasley mother. Surprising herself, Ginny smiled to hear them, then turned to Hermione, taking her hand.


	11. Family Sharing

A moment later, Molly Weasley shuffled into the warm kitchen, an overfilled laundry basket pressed against the front of her worn white bathrobe. "Kids," she muttered, shaking her head, "Always acting as if I've never seen a tantrum before, as if their temper is so bloody important that I should gape in shock and grovel to hear the source of it. Really!"

Setting her basket on the table with a thud, Mrs. Weasley snapped out a single fluffy, green towel, then looked up at Ginny and Hermione, studying them for a moment before sighing heavily, shaking her head again, and motioning to the two chairs across from her.

"Might as well sit down, both of you," she said, her voice lower and crosser than usual, "seems we've got a lot to talk about it, and this laundry won't fold itself."

Ginny swallowed, released Hermione's hand, and obeyed immediately. It wasn't her mother's tone that frightened her; she'd seen her a lot more fired up than this. And it wasn't the look on her face either, even though the older woman did seem much more pale and drained than usual. No, what scared Ginny was Molly's actions. For never, _never, _in all her sixteen years had she come home to anything less than a smothering hug, a kiss on the cheek, an offer of something to eat . . .

_Could she possibly know already?_, Ginny wondered as she watched her mother quietly picking at the lint on one of her father's jumpers, before stopping to take a handkerchief to her nose. _And is she . . . crying? Then maybe it's something else, or maybe the news _has_ reached her and it's everything I feared-- disappointment so profound that she's at a loss for words, unsure if she even wants to be in the same room as us._

"Well?" Molly interrupted Ginny's thoughts, irritably tossing both her and Hermione a pair of jeans, "Are you two going to just sit there staring at me? Or are you going to fill me in on what's so bloody _important_ that my son's got his knickers in a bunch and my daughters couldn't even be bothered boarding their train?

Neither girl answered her, and looking over, Ginny saw that her girlfriend's calm had been replaced by a confused brimming of tears. She wasn't surprised. After all, imagining Mrs. Weasley's infamous stern lectures and actually being the subject of one were two different things entirely, and this was the brown-haired girl's first experience with the latter. _It's okay, _Ginny tried to tell her, taking her hand under the table. _It'll be over soon, and we'll still be together. She'll still love us, no matter how she reacts at first, I promise, Herm. It's okay._

Ginny's mother, however, must have also noticed the effect that she was having on the newest addition to their family because she immediately changed her tack and softened her tone.

"Girls--Gin, Hermione--I'm sorry. I-What am I thinking? I'm just so exhausted, and I don't want you to catch this . . . it's just a stupid cold your father brought home from work. He's upstairs sleeping the worst of it off now, probably dreaming about muggle germs and actually smiling. As if I don't have enough to manage with the holiday so close, and then your brother goes and slams a door in my face, and really . . . but it's good to see you both, it is. And if you don't want to tell me what this is about, well I can't make you, _yet, _but . . ."

Molly paused to blow her nose again, and Ginny grabbed at the moment, suddenly afraid that she would lose her courage entirely if offered any escape. "Mum," she started in a rush, closing her eyes, "We do want to tell you."

Then Ginny paused, swallowed harder, and quickly pushed out the rest: "I'm a-a lesbian. Ron just found out, and he's angry because I'm dating, well, Hermione. I love her, Mum, I really do, and I know you must be shocked, but I'm sure, _we're _sure, and nothing can change it."

Feeling her girlfriend squeeze her hand tenderly beneath the table, Ginny breathed and braced herself for the reaction. Mrs. Weasley, however, said nothing. Rather, she was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit and merely turned her face once more into her embroidered handkerchief. Several long seconds ticked away before she emerged from behind it, and when she did, Ginny immediately noticed, with relief-tinged shock, that her coughs had taken on the strange, entirely unexpected, tone of a _chuckle. _

"What on earth was I thinking, not assuming that _that _was what Ron was on about in the first place?" Molly asked herself aloud then, with a bemused smile.

"Oh, Ginny, really, don't look so surprised," she continued , turning her attention back to her daughter, "I've had you figured out for years now. Granted, I wasn't sure about Hermione, if you two were . . . well, Charlie thought so. Told me as much when he got your first letter about the kitten back in July . . . But then, when Hermione took off for Bill and Fleur's, we were all a little worried, your father too, that maybe it was one-sided."

"And we felt simply horrible," Mrs. Weasley added in a quieter tone, "that we didn't talk to you about it; that we wanted to and just didn't know how; there's no book to prepare you for these things you know . . . but then the night before school, when the two of you didn't come back to the party, when I went into your room later and found you asleep, together like that . . ."

"Mum!" Ginny squeaked, her face reddening.

"Well, I would have knocked, but really, it's not like . . . well, of course you two weren't, aren't . . .," Molly muttered, her own face suddenly taking on the same hue as her daughter's, "I mean not that there's anything wrong with it, nothing at all. It's just that at your age, you don't want to rush into. . ."

"Mum, please. Stop, _please._" Ginny interrupted her, now completely mortified, "You have _nothing_ to worry about."

Molly seemed ready to say more; however, Hermione, quick and clever as always, reverted back to an earlier and easier subject. "So, you're okay with it then, Mrs. Weasley, with us?"

"Of course I am, dears . . ." Molly started, her voice weary, yet light-hearted.

The older woman continued, speaking more words of hope, caution, and pride, but her daughter found herself unable to listen fully, drawn inward instead by her own thoughts._ Amazing. Mum . . . she knows, really knows, and suspected all along to boot! And she doesn't care, not one jot, not as long as we're happy. Dad and Charlie too from what she's implied. I can't believe it. But it's real. _Ginny felt a warm contentment spread through her, one that had nothing and everything to do with the hand that she held.

Another hour passed, as the three of them left off the laundry and discussed Lavender's note, Ron's reaction, the first half of their term at school, the status of their grades and Gryffindor's Quidditch standings.

During that time, Molly had admonished Ginny to be extra kind to her brother, to remember how she, herself, had felt during the first few months of summer. With blushing pride, she had also told them both how much, and how unconditionally, she loved them. And, of course, in a sterner voice, she had reminded each of them, more than once, about how she expected their marks to remain high, despite whatever distracting feelings might now tempt them to push homework aside. Finally, with a yawn, the Weasley mother glanced at the clock, then shooed the girls upstairs to unpack and wash up while she started dinner.

Obediently, Ginny began to follow Hermione toward their bedroom; however, she paused on the bottom step and found herself unable to resist turning back and rushing into the kitchen to wrap her mother in a grateful embrace.

"Oh, Gin," Molly sighed, holding her youngest child tightly against her, "It'll all come out alright; with the school and everyone, you'll see. Now go on and make sure Hermione knows that too," she added, gently swatting Ginny on the shoulder, "and enough with the hugs for a while, okay? Unless you _want_ to end up wiping your nose every five seconds . . ."

* * *

Four days later, Ginny laid in bed, watching Weasel stalk an errant owl feather that was floating in front of her window. The feisty kitten seemed quite a bit fuzzier than usual, as did everything else in the room, probably due to her watery eyes and the pinching pressure invading the bridge of her nose.

Turning on her side to release a ragged cough, Ginny reflected on how right her mother had been, like always. Maybe it wasn't the hug that sealed it, but somehow, whatever germs her parents possessed had spread through the Burrow like a wildfire, until almost everyone staying there for the holiday--Fred, George, Bill, Fleur--had matching red eyes and raspy voices. Even Ron had somehow caught it, although Ginny wasn't sure how, since her brother had been holed up in his room, sulking and refusing visitors, for days.

_Hermione's sure healthy enough though, _Ginny mused, _which is odd, considering her refusal to, even temporarily, abstain from kissing me. Not that I'm complaining, but if she has some kind of antibacterial charm hidden up her sleeve and just isn't sharing it, I swear . . ._

As if called forth out of thin air by her girlfriend's thoughts, the brown-haired witch suddenly pushed her way into the room, carrying a tray of toast and hot tea. "Aren't you supposed to napping, love?," Hermione chided quietly, setting down the comfort food and pulling Ginny's blanket snugly back up over her.

"Can't," Ginny grumbled, shrugging the blanket off again, "Not with all those post owls tapping at the bloody windows. How many so far today?"

"Just two," Hermione answered casually, "and that makes eight total, only one of them Gryffindor. Not so bad, once you consider how many students are in the school."

Ginny nodded, trying to pretend, like her girlfriend and mother, that the howlers they had begun receiving from several homophobic Hogwarts families weren't anything to get worked up about. The red-head, however, could still hear the screeches of the first one echoing in her mind--_You should be ashamed of yourselves . . . utter abomination . . . any respectable wizarding family who wants to carry on their line . . . in front of impressionable children no less . . ." _

Remembering gave her a chill, and she was glad when the older girl covered her again with the blanket before crawling into bed beside her.

"Gin," Hermione murmured, noticing her girlfriend's contemplative scowl, "Don't let it get to you. Your parents are happy, Luna's ecstatic, Fred and George are already planning to breed a line of gay pygmy puffs in our honor . . . And Harry wrote to me again this morning, said he and Roxie were definitely coming for New Year's, said they'd try to talk to Ron, get him to come around too . . . "

Ginny nodded, faked a half-smile, and then snuggled closer to the brown-haired witch.

"That's better," Hermione went on, running a hand soothingly through her red hair, "Now drink your tea and potion, and then at least try to sleep _a little_. The worst of it's over, and tomorrow's Christmas. And personally, I'd like it if you were healthy enough to at least _pretend_ to enjoy the present I've picked out for you."

_That's right_, Ginny remembered, as a tinge excitement managed to rise up within her, _tomorrow is Christmas, which means Charlie, and new sweaters, and mum's eggnog, and the twins so full of fire-whiskey that they can't remember all the words to Jingle Elves . . ._

Yet, as the red-head closed her eyes, even the comfort of those thoughts couldn't prevent other worries from chipping away at her joy. For Christmas meant that they were one day closer to the start of school. And it was the one day that Molly would insist they all spend together, no matter how much Ron protested. . .

_But maybe my love is right_, Ginny thought, feeling Hermione's warm arms around her waist, Hermione's even breaths rising and falling against her back, _I do need to stop worrying so much. Harry'll be able talk some sense into him. Or mum and dad . . . After all, Christmas is a time for family, for showing love, making amends, and even . . ._

Yet whatever else the next day might bring, Ginny Weasley wasn't able to predict it. For with that thought, she finally slipped into sleep.


	12. Happy Holidays

For several minutes now, Ginny Weasley had been able to feel pale sunlight warming her face and to smell the sizzle of bacon rising up from the kitchen far below. Yet she willed her eyes to stay closed and her body to keep still beneath her mound of covers. She was not yet ready to feel the chill morning air against her thin cotton nightdress. Nor was she was ready to give up on lulling her mind back to the dream it had so rudely abandoned—one where the spreading warmth of firelight danced softly against her skin, matching move for move the dance of Hermione's warm lips against her own.

Stifling a small cough, Ginny sighed and accepted that the charm had been broken. The stillness of the sheets stretched over her and the lone sounds of her own breath rising and falling told the red-head that the other girl was already awake, puttering around downstairs somewhere. Any hope of a real Christmas kiss would mean she had to go find her. _Which wouldn't be my kindest gesture, _she mused grumpily_, unless I go and find my toothbrush first. _

Twenty minutes later, however, when a freshly-scrubbed Ginny finally reached the bottom of the Burrow's steps, she felt her earlier resistance to wakefulness swept away by the storm of holiday cheer surrounding her. A chorus of Weasley voices, in which she could only vaguely make out her girlfriend, greeted her heartily with "Merry Christmases" and "It's about times," and before she knew it, Ginny had been half-hugged and half-tugged to a spot on the couch between Charlie and Hermione.

Settling there, she allowed her mother to fret about her, feeling her forehead and "tsking" at her bare feet, as a steaming cup of herbal tea was shuffled into her hands. Finally, when Molly seemed satisfied that a drippy nose and ragged throat wouldn't do her daughter in, she stepped away to try to bring order to the joyful chaos overtaking the room.

"Right then, everyone's together now, time for presents" the Weasley mother announced with a glowing smile, before bustling about to clear away breakfast dishes and to pile brightly-wrapped packages neatly at her children's feet.

Order, however, could not be maintained for long, and before Ginny had managed to get the green-and-gold paper off of her first sweater, the twins had caused a ruckus, pilfering Percy's glasses and magicking them high up onto the glittering, popcorn-draped tree. With their wands, they pulled together two red streamers to act as a mouth, and before their older brother could stop them, the pine was belting out their latest rewrite of an old Christmas tune:

_Dashing through the forest_

_On an angry centaur's back_

_Goes good old Dolores_

_And we never want her back!_

_Oh, students shout and cheer_

_As Grawp lifts her in his fist,_

_What fun it is to sit right here_

_And watch that bitch get squished . . . _

Ginny almost choked on her tea, laughing at the chorus that followed, and even Ron, sitting alone in the corner armchair and purposefully avoiding eye contact with the girls, cracked a smile. Molly brokered no initial complaint either, perhaps remembering all that the horrid woman had put her family through the year before. She did, however, call a stop to it when the tree moved on to a rather uncensored version of "I Saw Voldy Kissing Death Eaters." And somehow, she managed to get most of the siblings to join in on more "traditional" wizarding carols instead, while they finished unwrapping their gifts.

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed lazily as butterbeers and plum pudding were served, as Arthur pestered Hermione with questions about the inner-working of Muggle Christmas lights and Charlie draped an arm around his sister's shoulders, sharing stories from his work on the dragon preserve. Visitors came and went as well, adding their own laughter and chatter to the mix—Tonks and Lupin, Dobby, Xenophilius and Luna. None could stay long because they all had other families to visit, but Molly made sure that each left with plates heaped full of her cookies and cakes.

Settled back on the old sofa that evening, Ginny smiled at the memory of those visits. She had been happy to see her friends, and even happier for the unexpected "gift" that each, in turn, had brought her. For as the first couple bid goodbye, inspiration had struck, and the red-head had the idea of volunteering to see all their guests back out to their portkeys, dragging Hermione along to help carry their treats. This allowed the two girls to steal small snippets of time alone together on the walk back. A moment or two when no one would miss them, when they could make good use of the mistletoe adorning the broomshed's doorway . . .

It was on the last of these treks through the snow in the yard that Hermione had slipped her gloved fingers softly down Ginny's arm as they kissed, leaving behind a ringlet of silver. Pulling away to finger the charms dangling from it, Ginny had blushed at its subtle beauty, and then blushed more deeply when she inspected it closely. Along the inside ran an inscription that changed with her touch, each version listing a different reason that her girlfriend loved her.

"It's . . . wow," the Weasley girl had murmured in awe, as their breath rose in tendrils around them and her eyes watched the changing letters.

"And a damn good thing you gave to me in private, Herm!" she'd then exclaimed a second later, her face turning a deeper scarlet at the sight of a particularly embarrassing inscription, one containing words about freckles that only Hermione had seen.

Remembering this, Ginny stifled a laugh and discreetly sidled closer to her love on the couch, until she felt their hips pressed warmly together._ Though I'd be mortified to show it off, _she mused, _it's more than I ever would have thought to ask for, just like this day with my family, just like the girl who's joined it. . . _She felt a sudden urge then to take that girl's hand, to pull her up into her arms for a slow dance around the tree, just as her father had done with her mother, the moment Celestina Warbeck's music had begun drifting through the room.

But then Ginny thought better of it, remembering Ron and her mother's warnings to "let him get used to the idea." _It seems to be working at least_, she thought, knowing she'd have time upstairs to get closer to her girlfriend later. _Granted, he hasn't said a word to us all day, but still, he's not fighting being in here, not cursing and calling names. Given a day or two, he'll probably make up with us, realize he misses his mate, and that she'd had a good reason to not to tell him . . ._

_

* * *

_

The rest of break, however, proved that this would not be the case. From what Ginny could tell, Christmas may have merely been a compromise between mother and son, one that didn't extend past the holiday's end. Since then, Ron had made a show of storming out of any room the girls entered, no matter whom he had been with or what he had been doing. An unfinished dinner, a conversation with the twins left dangling mid-sentence—his fiery temper was undiscriminating, and a bit more immature that necessary, if you asked for his mother's opinion.

Their father had tried talking to him, of course; the whole family had, long before Harry and Roxie had come along at New Year's to add their own failure to the pile.

"He says he doesn't give an owl's nut what either of you do," her Quidditch captain had reported dutifully that evening, after a sulky hour spent in his best mate's room, "He just doesn't want it anywhere near him."

"Which sounds exactly the opposite of not caring to me . . ." Ginny remembered hearing Hermione mutter irritably, in reply.

That conversation had continued on much further, of course. For over an hour, the girls had sat with Harry and Roxie, cutting up bits of confetti for the party they'd planned to celebrate the change in years. The whole time they'd tried to figure out just what the boy's problem could be. After all, he had been the one to break up with Hermione, to say he wasn't in love with her and hadn't been for some time. He had had loads of other girlfriends since, and he hadn't been the only one kept in the dark about their relationship. He wasn't quite big enough of a git to be _that _homophobic—in the end, they were left with many possibilities, and no definitive answers, for no matter who talked to him, Ron simply wouldn't say.

The evening before them, however, was no holiday, but rather their last at the Burrow before returning to school. And Ginny was determined to push her brother from her mind. As it stood, she and Hermione had enough other things to worry about, had always had enough other worries, and that certainly wasn't any different now, sitting at the Burrow's kitchen table, awaiting a visit from their headmaster. That morning, Dumbledore had owled the family an oddly formal letter, requesting an audience with the girls before term resumed and asking them to have "parental representation" present.

"What do you think he wants?" Hermione murmured to the air, for the fiftieth time since they'd opened the envelope. But Ginny just squeezed her hand, and Arthur just shook his head, and no one offered an answer. No one knew.

In their minds, however, all of them had guessed at some point during the day, and in a moment each would know that he or she had guessed correctly. For when the wizened old man swept through the kitchen door, he shook the snow from his boots first, offered the group a broad smile second, and made the reason for his visit more than apparent in what he did third.

From his midnight blue cloak, Dumbledore pulled a stack of papers. And the topmost one was definitively pink.


	13. Meddling Governors

"Molly, Arthur, Miss Weasley and Miss Granger," Dumbledore greeted them each with a nod, before accepting a seat and a hot cup of tea. "I do hope this evening finds you well?"

"That depends, Albus," Ginny heard her mother reply defensively, "on why you're here and why you've brought that horrible pink thing with you."

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled, though grimly, "I _was _hoping you already knew about it, Molly, but then, even when you were at school, you had a way of getting information from even the most resistant of the younger students."

Mrs. Weasley nodded stiffly before taking a seat, and Ginny wondered at what had just passed between her mother and headmaster, but decided to let it go, lest it detract from the issue at hand, the one now tying her stomach in knots. She could tell Hermione was nervous too, from the dampness of the hand clutching her own.

"I've brought this, of course," the older man continued gently, laying the notice on the table, "because it would be remiss of me to leave it unaddressed, now that half the school's got a hold of one copy or another. No less because the board of governors has seen fit to take it seriously, despite, if I may add, it's rather disappointing penmanship."

"And what does _that_ mean, take it seriously?" snapped Molly in response, as she put an arm protectively around Hermione. "Surely they aren't going to just take the word of one small-minded twit, without even talking to the girls, without even getting their side of it. . . And surely, you Albus, of all people, aren't trying to imply that there's any truth to that thing . . . that they publically . . . in their brothers' shop, of all places . . ."

Dumbledore raised his hands imploringly, then shook his head, as if to reassure the woman that he believed no such thing.

"Molly," he went on, "That is not why I'm here, though I understand your concerns. Indeed, Ms. Brown's parents had called for an expulsion hearing at one point, claiming their daughter had been 'traumatized' by these supposed deeds and threats, but when it came out that it would only be her word against theirs, that a resolution would likely require Veritaserum . . . well, suffice it to say that the young lady was suddenly uninterested in pursuing this course of action."

_Expulsion? _Ginny thought. _Lavender wanted us expelled? But why? Sure, we've never really been friendly with each other, and she was jealous of Hermione once, but we've never been enemies either, and she's the one dating Ron now. If anything, you'd think our relationship would make her_ happy_ . . . I swear, I'd have hexed her from here to King's Cross if I'd known she'd go that far, should have obliviated her in the first place, consequences be damned . . . probably still could. What was that spell Hermione used for snitches? The one with the boils that healers can't fix . . . _

The red-head noticed Dumbledore's grave frown and had a sudden suspicion that the old man could read her thoughts. She swallowed guiltily (though she knew she was just being paranoid), and tried to push her Weasley temper aside, for now.

Then she listened, as he continued his explanation, "Of course if Miss Weasley and Miss Granger are indeed romantically involved?"

Ginny watched her mum look at her and Hermione, pause, and finally look back at Dumbledore, her head held high. "They are."

" . . . then I'm afraid that the governors still have a problem with their rooming arrangement, feel a need to address the concerns of those parents who've been sending them letters."

"We've got a few such howlers ourselves . . . " muttered Arthur, before his wife interrupted him, "And every one of them utter rubbish! Albus, they simply cannot punish my girls just for not hiding this, just for being brave enough to admit that they're a little different, no matter what those . . ."

"You're right; they cannot," Dumbledore reassured her quickly, "Nor would I _ever_ allow it. In the wizarding world, homosexuals are afforded the same rights as their heterosexual counterparts, something some of us have fought hard for over the years. Granted, there are still quite a few families that see things differently, that think gays and lesbians are too much of a threat to our bloodlines . . . but the magical community's understanding of natural laws has helped to keep that attitude _out_ of our ministry laws. Has helped make it understood that our sexual preferences are born with us, as much as our ability to wave wands."

"Well, then, there shouldn't be any concerns, and their rooming arrangements are just fine. After all, if I don't have a problem with them sharing a room, as their _mother_, I don't see how it's anyone else's business."

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. "I agree that, generally, that might be the case, but I'm afraid that after the incident with Ms. Edgecombe and Mr. McLaggen last year, after her parents discovered that the child was conceived on Hogwart's grounds, well, the rules have gotten more than a bit stricter . . ."

"Oh, I see," said Molly bitingly, as she set her teacup down hard enough for some of its contents to slosh over the edge, "so the board of governors is afraid that Hermione _will knock Ginny up?_"

The tips of Arthur's ears turned pink and his daughter could feel the heat rising in her own face. Dumbledore, however, seemed somewhat amused by the slight, a reaction he hid well under the guise of adjusting his half-moon spectacles and taking a sip of his tea.

"Well, no, of course not," he said after a pause, his voice stoic again, "but they're insistent on finding a way to impose their rules equally. No boys in the girl's dormitory or vice versa, no P.D.A. on school grounds, no couples unattended in common areas . . . of course, it hadn't occurred to them that separation by gender would leave room for other possibilities, and now that it has, now that they realize these two girls might share not only a dorm room, but a bed, unless they find a way to forbid it . . ."

Ginny almost rose from her chair at the suggestion, but to do what, she didn't know. It was Hermione, however, who found words to respond with, the quiet strain in her voice causing her girlfriend to stay seated and holding her hand, while everyone else turned their attention toward her:

"Does that mean that they're going to force us to . . .," she began, seeming unable to speak the thing out loud, "But Professor Dumbledore, they can't . . . I don't want to say why, and maybe it doesn't seem important, but I don't just want Ginny with me because we're dating . . . I mean, I'm not afraid anymore, to sleep alone, not really, I guess . . . but sometimes, sometimes I need . . ."

The brown-haired witch stopped trying to explain, and Ginny felt her heart clench when she noticed the tear sliding down her girlfriend's cheek. Gently, she began stroking the palm of the hand she held with one thumb, trying to silently convey what she wished she could give voice to._ Please don't cry, Herm. Please. I'm worried enough out about you. And I'd drop out of school before I'd let them separate us, let them give me another reason to be . . . _

"Miss Granger, Miss Weasely . . . " Their headmaster's voice fell softly on their ears. Ginny noticed Dumbledore watching Hermione with concern, and again had the suspicion that the man heard, or understood, more than what left their lips.

"I'm in no position to offer promises. Or to encourage the defiance of any Hogwart's rules that our governors might impose. However, I can tell you that there's a precedent for granting the Head Girl a private room . . . that it would take little time to ready one, and that Minerva wouldn't think of putting an 'emotional strain' on any of the other Gryffindor girls by forcing them to move around midway through term. More importantly, there is _not_, as of yet, any system in place to track movement from room to room, or to monitor who may or may not be sleeping here or there, no matter where the board deems it best for one's bed to be assigned . . ."

Hermione nodded and thanked him quietly, and Ginny was relieved to see that the girl's panic had momentarily faded, along with the tears in her eyes. Then a moment passed in which all of them just sat there, blanketed in stillness by unvoiced hopes and worries.

It was Dumbledore again, his hands pressed together as if in thought, who finally broke the silence.

"Molly, Arthur . . .," he addressed the Weasley parents, "I really ought to have come sooner. If I'd known you were receiving letters as well . . . Honestly, I don't like any of this any more than either of you do. Your girls have been nothing but model students, in light of all your family's been through. And I'm the last person on earth who wants to stand in the way of young love . . ."

"Miss Granger, Miss Weasley," he continued, turning his steady gaze back to them, "I'm not here to ask you to not be yourselves, or to hide the feelings you have for each other, but I am asking you to try to be careful. Ignorance is a burden, and unfortunately, it is those who don't share it that often have to bear its brunt . . . On that note, I want you both to remember, as you pack your things tonight, that I tolerate no harassment at my school, none whatsoever, no matter the form. Of course, I do hope that that won't be an issue, but that you would come to me, or one of your other professors, if it was."

Nodding her assent, along with her girlfriend, Ginny smiled and tried to feel reassured by the words. Dumbledore had given them his blessing and would protect them if Lavender's reactions were the norm. Discretion might still allow them to spend their nights together, no matter what rules of 'morality' were imposed by outside forces. She would find a way to be proud like her mum, find a way to make Ron come around. She'd find a way to solve the mystery of Hermione, and figure out why, and of what, if anything, her love was still scared.

_She would. She just had to. _

* * *

**A/N (8/28/2010): To all my wonderful readers and reviewers. This is not the end of the story, and I have no intention of abandoning it, I promise you. The truth is that I'm working 2 full-time jobs right now, on top of finishing my last semester of graduate school. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining because I have 2 of the most wonderful jobs in the world (which is why I was too much of a git to quit the one when I got the other). But I've barely time to write an e-mail these days, let alone a chapter. Come December 2010, however, I finish school for good, and I will drop down to part-time at one of my jobs. Then I will write. Until then, thank you, as always, for reading. And, as always, may you be well. **


	14. Promises

**A/N: So, I promised an update as soon as I got my life back, but I have to admit that I feel a bit rusty, having not written anything non-academic yet this year. I'm open to feedback, of course. On a side note, have I mentioned how fantastic it feels to actually have my life back? (Sorry, still giddy from having the whole day off . . . )**

All in all, it hadn't been what she'd imagined. Stares, yes. Lewd comments in the hallways from clusters of 4th year boys, yes. But no out-and-out mocking, no metaphorical burning at the stake. If anything was eating at Ginny now, it was that school was too, well, _normal_.

_And why would that bother me?, _the red-head wondered, lowering her quill to finish shading in the lumpy tealeaves on her parchment. After all, Ginny wasn't crazy; she wasn't some attention-seeking martyr. So why was she bemoaning the fact that a whole week of the new term had flown by without any major drama? Sure, words like "imminent implosion," "broken tailbones," and "wayward ravenous dragons" were all around her, but that was par for the course in Trelawney's class, not real disaster. _Have I gotten so used to a world in need of fixing, _Ginny wondered,_ that I don't know how to function without tension and tears?_

_Not likely_, the Griffyndor girl assured herself, if "assured" could be used to describe a revelation that bore no comfort, _that definitely wasn't it._ After all, if worries were all she needed to get through the day, she had more than enough to rely on.

There was the way that Ron looked at her, no, _through_ her, when she beat a quaffle into his ring at last night's practice, as if even blocking an easy shot was too much an acknowledgement of his sister's existence. There was the way Hermione's undershirt had bunched up ever so slightly when she shifted in their bed that morning, revealing the smallest patch of smooth tan hip, how Ginny had traced a finger lightly across this proffered patch of skin, and how even in that groggy plateau between slumber and wake, Hermione had shivered and pulled her shirt back down.

They had their own room now, just as Dumbledore had promised. A private sanctuary at the top of the girls' stairs, it held a single four-poster draped with scarlet-and-gold hangings, a few bookshelves, and a single window whose view stretched, on a clear day, across the greenhouses and on to the snow-covered shrivelfigs in Hagrid's garden. Like the dorm they had shared with Vicky, it already held the clutter of cohabitation. If she closed her eyes, Ginny could picture the rolls of Hermione's parchment scattered across the desk that morning—a half-finished mapping of the stars' progress toward Saturn and a twice-revised essay on the wrist movement intricacies involved in the casting of a perfect Patronus. She could picture her own messier mark on the room—the sweaty Quidditch robes in a pile at the foot of the bed, the drippings from a broken bottle of broom wax now hardened in a line across the oak floorboards.

More importantly though, she could picture how Vicky, only an hour off the Hogwarts' Express and already covered in owl feathers, had helped her carry her own trunk up the stairs. How they had run across Lavender half-way up, and how she had cast them a disgusted sneer, yet hadn't raised the alarm that Ginny was off to sleep somewhere she shouldn't be. How she had slept there every night since, without a single question from staff or students. How there really hadn't been any questions at all. Looks, yes. Lewd comments, yes. Even a couple more owl-delivered howlers and an embarrassing, disproportioned sketch that bore all the markings of a Malfoy. But no direct challenges, no students scraping their chair father away from her in their classrooms, no empty space around them at mealtimes that shouted _you don't belong_. No lost friends, not real friends anyway.

Luna had hugged them and given them a decade-old Quibbler article that depicted 2 stern-looking witches holding hands beneath the title "Ministry Cover-Up: Lesbian Magic Proven Cure for Spattergroit." Neville had gotten them a joint Christmas present, a waterbowl for Weasel charmed to refill itself. Harry still joked to anyone listening that he was a shoo-in for best man. Even Snape had given his blessing in his own way, grumbling at Ginny that dating someone who'd actually read the book wouldn't be enough to scrape a NEWT in potions.

And maybe this was the real problem. That the good hadn't melted the bad.

Maybe there was a small part of Ginny that held tightly to too many "ifs." If her parents were okay with her sexuality, and there was no worry of being the reason that her home would break apart. If the school and her peers were okay with it, and there was no stigma to being her relative or friend. If they had a private room, and there was no chance that someone might stumble past a forgotten locking charm. Then maybe Ron would talk to her. Then maybe Hermione would let her . . .

Okay, Ginny admitted, she'd never really believed it. But how often do we honestly believe what gives us hope? Isn't that what faith is about? Telling yourself that adding a little more beet root will fix the potion when really you should have scrapped it the moment it turned orange? Believing that if you hit the Quaffle in right now, you'll still have time to duck the beater's bat? More often than not, there's explosions and bruises. But has that ever kept us from clinging to hope the next time around?

Only this hope had sunk, and she was left searching for another that wouldn't appear. Talking to Hermione hadn't worked, her direct questioning shrugged off once again with really-it's-only-this-or-that excuses. Then she was distracted with a genuine smile, a tender embrace, warm gestures that backed up her girlfriend's assurances that everything was just fine.

Writing a long apology letter to Ron hadn't born any better fruit either. Dobby had only apparated into their room that night, bearing the pumpkin-juice stained document, still unopened, telling her it'd been left at the breakfast table and that young Master Weasley refused to receive it in _his_ room.

And yet she had promised herself, had wanted to make her own promises stick as much as Dumbledore's had. _I will. I just have to._ Be proud like mom. Let Ron see. Figure out Hermione. It was a mantra in her head . . .

"Miss Weasley?," an exasperated sigh punctured Ginny's thoughts, as a hand reached down and rattled the teacup in front of her. "I had predicted inattentiveness and a general lack of focus, of course, sure signs that Orion has shifted Northward from the castle, but when I asked you all to bring your practical quizzes up to me, I expected you to do so before the rest of the class had made it through the trap door."

Ginny gulped, and lifting her quill, she looked around to find her classroom empty except for a lazy purple haze. Then she gazed down at the parchment, embarrassed by the half-colored lump of nothingness that rested above a sea of absent-minded quill scratching and inkblots. The assignment had been to seek out their immediate future in the tealeaves, draw it, and interpret it. At best she'd manage to scrape a "T" (in a class she only took for its easy "E's") and that was if Trelawney believed the premise that Ginny was predicting a week full of chaotic distractibility.

Still, she dumped her books into her bag, and trudged forward to place her scroll at the top of pile, consoling herself that she had a walk along the lakeshore with Hermione planned for after dinner. That maybe she was the cause of her own problems, spending all this time thinking. People who didn't want to be with you, she reminded herself, didn't ask to hold your hand out of a pretend fear of the world's gentlest Giant Squid. People who weren't okay didn't smile so brightly that the room seemed to spin. And what was she expecting from Ron in a week? It had taken _her_ nearly this long to forgive_ him_ for still dating Lavender. Maybe she should just go with the flow, practice a little patience and ease up on expecting the world to give her what she wanted, when she wanted it. _Be proud like my mum_, she thought, _no matter what, be proud like my . . ._

"Miss Weasley," Trelawney's voice drifted toward her again, hurrying Ginny in emptying out her teacup and clattering it back on a shelf.

"Miss Weasley!" The breezy voice had taken on a more abrupt quality, and irritated with feeling chastised, Ginny turned around. "Your paper . . .," her teacher intoned sternly, holding it up for examination against the light of a candle.

"I know," Ginny sighed, shifting her bag onto her shoulder and quickly stepping onto the ladder rung near the top of the trapdoor, "It's not the clearest sketch, but I was trying to capture the essence of how the herbs . . ." _How the herbs what?,_ she thought, stuck for words to finish her excuse, and hoping that her professor would assume something intelligent had passed out of her mouth but was muffled by her climb toward the lower floor.

Above her, however, Trelawney was no longer listening. Her eyes had closed beneath their glittering spectacles, and the parchment had slipped from her hand, gliding sleepily toward the floor, just missing the flame of the candle.

Ginny didn't see this though, only caught a few of the words drifting down from a voice that now held a duller-edge. "A true seer comes in the form of fear. Your questions shall be answered in the guise of the asker, who bears witness to unspeakable acts. A true seer comes in the form of fear, intended for another, unleashed without malice, it holds serenity in the hand of regret . . . "

_A true seer comes in the form of fear_? The red-head thought, shaking her head with annoyance at today's riddle-of-false-portent and moving away from the ladder, toward the smell of sausages snaking up from the Great Hall, _if that was the case, I'd've known everything I needed to the moment Hermione said, "I already do." _


	15. Plans

That night Ginny had seen Trelawney's face appear over and over, darkened by shadows and whispering inaudible words. Hermione had been there too, in flashes, huddled in a corner with Ron's arms encircling her protectively. Or had it been Harry? Their images had melted, one into another, until she could barely grasp the fragments of fear, left by the dream, through the sound of footsteps in the corridor stair. Then Weasel had begun head-butting her, none-too-gently, his claws needling into her sleeve as he mewed for his morning meal, and she had felt Hermione's head lift sleepily from her other shoulder, an arm brushing past her breast to scratch between the kitten's ears. Her eyes had opened to pale sunlight, and the dream had disappeared.

All that had remained from the day before was Ginny's commitment—to worry less about Hermione and enjoy the contentment of the love they shared, letting how it was expressed make its own course slowly, rather than questioning it at every turn.

It was easy enough in the weeks that followed. With N.E.W.T.s around the corner for the seventh years (and "around-the-corner-before-you-know-it" for the sixth years, according to her professors) school work once again began piling up. More often than not, the moon rose to find Ginny filling 30 inches of parchment with the details of how Hawkdor the Destroyer forged his seven flaming orc swords, or practicing the wrist movements that would transform her own candle flame into fireflies.

More often than not, the morning sun rose to find her regretting these late nights of cramming, regretting even more that she had to untangle herself from the warmth of Hermione's body to dress for another round of classes in the chilly February air of their room. But this morning was different. There would be no studying today.

Professor Sinistra had promised clear skies, but still the red-head chose her thickest woolen jumper to layer beneath her scarf and cloak. She pulled out a second to toss to Hermione, then turned without being asked, to let the older girl slip out of her nightdress. "You're sure you need all that clothing?," Hermione teased, her laugh muffled as she pulled the gown up over her head. "I'm not opposed to staying in here all day, asking Dobby to find you some breakfast. I might have some toast as well, I suppose, but there are probably better ways to occupy my mouth . . ."

Ginny blushed, sorely tempted, but shook her head slowly, before sitting to pull on her socks. "We play Slytherin in 3 weeks, and Snape has the pitch booked for practice through this Thursday. Best friend or not, Harry will hex us both if I skip another flying exercise."

That much wasn't a lie. The last time Ginny had shown up late to the pitch, her legs had still been trembling from a mid-morning tryst and were barely strong enough to sit a broom. Harry had dismissed her with a stern warning and the punishment of 10 laps above the Forbidden Forest every morning until she decided which was the more immediate need—the feel of Hermione's hand cupped against her thigh or the feel of a Quidditch cup in her own hand. Since then, love-making had been regulated to evenings only, and if she wanted that to change, she needed to prove her commitment to the team.

Still, it was nice that he let Hermione fly with her. "It'll strength your turns, with the extra weight on your broom, and Merlin knows you'll need that with the oxen they've trussed up in beater's robes this year." Her captain had muttered the consent gruffly before turning back to a book on flight maneuvers, but Ginny hadn't missed the smile hidden in his eyes. For all his feigned toughness, Harry wanted both girls to be happy, and he knew what that was like. Outside of their separate practices and his own morning runs, it was rare to see the Boy-who-Lived on his Firebolt without Roxie's arms around him.

_And isn't this happiness, _Ginny thought, two hours later as her Nimbus 2001 sought a landing past Hagrid's garden, _Hermione's hands clasped together at my waist, her face pressed into my neck, as the wind carries her dreams of our post-Hogwarts life past my ears?_

"Of course, a cottage like Bill and Fleur's would be nice," the brown-haired witch continued, as Ginny touched down the broom. "Someplace cozy and all our own. I already have 2 interviews lined up at the ministry, one with the head of the International Magical Law Office, and I should be able to save up enough galleons for a down payment while you finish out Hogwarts, if I stay with Molly and Arthur."

"Bugger that," Ginny laughed, stepping from the broom and stretching her legs, "I told you, we'll have all the galleons we need if the Harpies scout me next year. Until then, there're rooms to rent in Hogsmeade, and it'd be nice to have a place to crawl back into bed on Saturday mornings."

Hermione smiled and shrugged one gloved hand into her girlfriend's, as they began the long walk back up to the castle. She ignored the notion of rented rooms, instead carrying on with the plans they'd discussed half a dozen times since the snow had been lifting. "We'll choose one with a big enough yard for you to practice, put in a sun room for my study on the second floor. Or maybe we should enchant the ceiling, like the Great Hall, so the sunlight doesn't fade the leather covers of my law books. Of course that's if I get the position," she sighed, "I'll need at least 6 N.E.W.T.s, no less than Outstanding in Potions and Ancient Runes."

"Well then I hope they don't come up with a higher grade than O, because it's the only way you could possibly earn anything else," Ginny replied. She watched her girlfriend blush at the compliment and squeeze her hand tighter, as they crested the first hill and paused to rest. "I've been thinking," Ginny continued, unbuttoning her cloak and laying it out to sit on, "We should put in an old-fashioned muggle sitting room. One with carpet that goes from wall to wall, those stuffed chairs that lean all the way back, and that box thing you told me about that shows the moving pictures. Dad would be fascinated, and it'd give our kids a sense of their heritage . . ."

"Kids?," Hermione teased, leaning close so that Ginny could put an arm around her, "And when did we decide we'd have children?"

"About a week ago in Hogsmeade, when I saw you cooing over Florean Fortescue's new granddaughter. We could have a daughter too, a strong little Quidditch player named Quill, followed by a son named Book, so we'd be sure you'd spend plenty of time with them." She felt Hermione shift enough to punch her shoulder, but not before letting out the laugh that had been her aim. "Seriously though, Dad'll be happy enough with the muggle room. Mum, on the other hand, I'll wager a thousand house points that she starts knitting us tiny robes before our wedding reception's even over. You should have seen the looks that she was giving Fleur's flat stomach at Christmas. She probably plans for each of us to give her no less than seven grandkids, enough that they'll have to assign one owl just to deliver Hogwarts letters to Weasleys . . ."

"Kids might be nice, but we'll need the cottage first," Hermione yawned, as they watched a group of fourth years making their way down to the lake. Dennis Creevy stopped long enough to wave up at them, before rejoining the group.

They sat quietly then, watching the breeze stir through the bare branches of the trees, each picturing the garden on their own future property, where they would sit in the shade on the first warm days ending winter, planning the rooms they would need to add on for their children, worrying about the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s brought home by the next generation, teasing one another about their plans for their retirement. Ginny had noticed Hermione snuggle closer when she joked about their wedding reception and wondered if it wasn't too soon to be thinking about that day in the future. Fred and George had offered her a summer job, and if she took it, she'd have enough for a ring by the start of next school year.

For now though, she needed to worry more about the immediate future. Valentine's was but a Saturday away, and she hadn't finished the final touches on her plans yet. They'd start off with the pretense of another flying exercise, and she'd find some excuse for them to stop at Hagrid's. He'd already agreed to clear out for the afternoon and lend her the cottage, and Dobby had been helping her to pilfer candles and a bottle of Elven Wine. She was holding out for the starlight Thestral ride, but there hadn't been any word on that yet from Luna . . .

"Ron and Harry are coming," Hermione said softly, interrupting her thoughts. Ginny saw them then, bundled as tightly as the girls had been earlier, heading for a nearby hill with broomsticks under their arms.

"Maybe we should move before they look over," Ginny answered. It was turning into a perfect Saturday, and she didn't want it ruined by her brother's stony stares and silences, by Harry running over to make awkward apologies for his best mate before the latter turned his back on the girls with unflinching indifference. Luck wasn't in her favor though, and Hermione remained in place, calling out to the boys before they stopped to pull on their gloves.

"Harry, Ron . . . over here, join us," she called, and Ginny noticed the hope in her voice. Her brother and captain had to have heard it as well, so she wasn't surprised when they turned toward the sound and squinted to make out its source. What did surprise her though is that, after exchanging a few words neither girl could hear, both boys began walking in their direction.

"He's coming over," Hermione whispered, "Harry said he'd try talking to him again, that he was only a wand breadth's away from convincing him to make peace with us. I knew those Cannons tickets I sent him would make a difference. The two of you could even go to the match together, once we've all made up. They're playing the Harpies too, which will give you a chance to watch their maneuvers and see what the captain's looking for."

They weren't close enough yet for Ginny to make out Ron's expression and see if maybe Hermione was right and there was a more affectionate sibling rivalry—over who backed the better Quidditch team—in her future. Something in her doubted it, but she gave Hermione's shoulder a reassuring squeeze all the same. At least it was clear that the red-headed boy knew where he was headed, and yet Harry wasn't dragging him. If anything, the black-haired boy was lagging behind, and Ginny found herself wondering if her brother's legs would ever stop growing, or if one day he'd be tall enough to block quaffles from their rings without mounting a broom first.

The image started her laughing again, and the laughter eased the anxiety she had been feeling a moment before. Letting things take their own course was working with Hermione; maybe it'd won out with Ron as well. And if it hadn't, well, there were other Saturdays, and Harry was flying Ron just as hard as her. She and Hermione could sit as many hilltops as they needed to, until they'd picked the paint color for every room in their cottage, until the day came when Ron argued that no sensible uncle would allow his nephew to be named Book, reddening when he realized that he'd missed some private joke.

Maybe it was today, she thought, wondering if he'd laugh at the name suggestion instead, then remembering his laugh, and wondering if he'd heard the one about the two Wizards' Chess queens who'd walked into a castle. _It'd be a good one to start with, even if he has heard it_, she thought, trying to remember the punchline as her brother came into view.


	16. Ron's Revelation

It was few minutes more before she could make out Ron's frown, but it took only that moment to wipe away any thoughts Ginny had of joking. He wasn't angry—no famous Weasley red had crept up to darken his freckles—but it wasn't sadness either, she could tell from the way he cast down his eyes and worried the knuckle of this thumb between his teeth. She had seen this look on her brother once before, on a summer night four years ago when their mum caught him sneaking firewhiskey. It was a face of guilt and dread, with a bit too much queasiness mixed in.

Ron sat down a few feet away from them without a word, crossing his legs shakily before he drew in a breath and looked his sister in the eye. "I'm sorry," he mumbled briefly, "I know I've been an ass."

Ginny wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Was she supposed to agree or disagree, or pretend that it didn't matter? Should she apologize too, or offer up some jest to make light of it? He still hadn't looked at Hermione, who sat quietly beside her, their bodies no longer touching, their hands no longer linked. Had the older girl read something into his words that she'd missed, something that told her to pull away?

In the end, her reply wasn't needed. It was Harry who prodded for more. Walking up behind Ron, he clapped his best mate on the shoulder and brusquely offered explanation for her brother's change of heart. "I told him it's time to make peace with you, Ginny, long overdue. Selfish or not, you're bloody family to me, both of you, and it's killing the team . . . Maybe he hasn't seen how much you love her, maybe he thought this was just some fling . . ."

"Leave off," Ron interrupted, shrugging his shoulder from beneath Harry's hand in annoyance, "I've heard what you have to say, over and over, and I don't need your help with this."

Taking the hint, Harry sat down stiffly, waiting with the girls while Ron swallowed his anxiety and picked at a few strands of brown grass. When he looked up again, he seemed steadier, and his eyes didn't waver from Ginny's face any more than his words did now from what he had to say. "I'm not here because of Harry," he started quietly, "Or maybe I was at first, but . . . I should have talked to you a long time ago, Ginny. I should have talked to you years ago, before it got to this."

He saw her puzzled look and paused to make her understand, "Remember when you were five and we used to play Warlock in the Wardrobe with Fred and George? You always wanted to be the warlock, even though it meant you started without a toy wand or a broom. It was always the warlock who got to rescue the princess . . . and you used to have those dolls, the silk ones Uncle Hugo sent from India. You were always having these little weddings for them, until Percy caught you at it and told mum she should knit you some princes . . .

"I think she wondered too then, but I was too young to have a word for it, and we didn't talk about those sorts of things. Then, when you started with Michael, and with Dean, I figured maybe I was wrong. That kids didn't know what they wanted, but once you were old enough to understand . . . well, it's clear that you know what you want now . . ."

Ginny nodded.

"and I wish I had had the courage before to tell you that was okay with me. That I loved you too much to care who you loved. You're my sister, Ginny. But Hermione . . ." Ron looked briefly over at the other girl, as if just noticing her, and then just as quickly he looked away again, at his sibling.

"You have to understand that that hurt me. I knew you were close, I saw how you looked at her, but part of me hoped . . . At first it was selfish pride; I admit that now. I wondered what people would say about me. _There goes Weasley—so much of a man that his girlfriend left him for his sister_,or even, _hey Ron, is it true that after the fifth Weasley, Merlin stopped handing out wands? _It was Lavender who told me that one, when we broke up, but I doubt it was her who started it . . ._"_

Ron swallowed again, then stared down at the ground for a long time as if he could find the right words to continue lying among the last clumps of dirty snow.

"I'm sorry," Ginny finally started to mumble, but her brother waved the apology off.

"It doesn't matter now. I know who I am, and this isn't about me. I know you never meant to hurt me, knew that before Harry drilled it into me that 'this isn't some fling; your sister really loves her.' You wouldn't try to hurt anyone—maybe a hex here and there—but you've never had it in you to just sit by, knowing someone was really suffering . . . and that's why I should have talked to you sooner, why Harry shouldn't have had to be the one to tell me. I'm your big brother, the only one you have here at Hogwarts, and I should have protected you. And now . . . now, I have to be the one who hurts you. I didn't want it to be me, Gin, Merlin knows I didn't, but someone has to put a stop to this. I know you think Hermione loves you, but she doesn't, she _can't_, and I can't just sit by while she pretends to. . ."

A moment ago Ginny had wanted to hug her brother, but now she only wanted to shake him. _He doesn't know what he's talking about, _she thought angrily._ Here I was feeling sorry for him, and it turns out that he's the same deluded git who wasn't speaking to me an hour ago, unable to accept what we have together, unable to accept that someone could want me when they've chosen to cast him aside. _

It was Hermione, however, who came to their defense, red-faced and shaking. "Of course I love her, Ron. Who-the-bloody-hell are you to tell me how I feel? Ginny means everything to me, she always has, always since . . ."

"Always, Hermione?" Ron huffed, "Then why did you ask me out first? Or Krum before me? Tell me, Hermione, when you were a little girl, did your princess dolls kiss other princesses, or did you picture them with knights, because . . ."

"I didn't play with dolls; I read books," Hermione cut him off, the color in her face grower darker, "And I asked you out because I didn't know what I wanted then, not that it makes a difference. I know what I want now, and Ginny does too, so if you think you can just walk over and here and change it . . . Look at me, Ron, for once bloody _look_ at me, and you'll see that I'm serious. I love her, I want to be with her, I . . ."

Ron didn't look at her though, nor did he look back at his sister. Only the ground would bear witness to his tears. "I know what this makes me sound like, I . . . I'm not pretending I have a right to put people into little boxes, decide who can be a lesbian and who can't be, but this is different. This is my family. And I get why you're together, I do," he said, shaking his head sadly, "It's because Ginny doesn't have a . . . because unlike me, or Harry, or any other boy out there, she'd never be able to . . . I know Jacob hurt you," and now Ron did look at Hermione, shame covering his face, "and that you think you can't be with men. I can't even imagine how that feels. But hating the thought of a man touching you doesn't mean that you want to be touched by a woman. Tell me, Hermione, does Ginny know yet about that scar you have on your chest from the Devil's Snare we got caught in our first year? Because I saw her journal at Christmas, that first week when I was pissed and looking for vengeance, ready to get even until I saw the kind of questions she had for you, how desperately she was struggling with why you never let her touch you. I didn't read more of it, not when I saw what it was about, but I couldn't stop thinking, that you were only with her because she's safe. . ."

Ron's revelation that he had violated Ginny's trust so coldly, reading her most intimate words and then flouncing them back out in front of her girlfriend, struck the young Griffyndor like a blast of dragon fire. She was ready to tackle him, to grind his idiot face into the dirt, until she let the last word sink in. _Safe. _How many times had Hermione said how safe she felt with Ginny? That didn't mean he was right. He was just reading everything out of context. If he'd bothered to watch them together, to hear how they planned their life . . . Of course it might be hard for Hermione to bear even the thought of another man inside of her, but if it was just a sex thing, well Hermione was the one to bring that to their relationship, much sooner than Ginny would have; she'd never pushed her girlfriend to give her pleasure, not even once. His logic didn't add up. Unless . . .

And that old worried voice returned to her, speaking the things she didn't want to hear—_unless she only touches you to distract from the fact that she never lets you touch her. Unless she saw the desire written on your face every time you kissed, assumed she had to find a way to quench it, despite knowing that she felt no passion of her own. If what you wanted was obvious to mum and dad and Charlie, obvious even to Ron . . . And didn't it start when she still couldn't even sleep through the night without you? So what if she thought that was the only way to get you to stay? _

Ginny found tears in her own eyes, and suddenly knew it wasn't Ron she wanted answers from. She didn't know how to ask what she wanted to, with the boys there bearing witness, but suddenly she didn't know how not to ask it either. "Hermione, are you . . . is it true that I'm . . . "

She felt her girlfriend stand then, felt Hermione's arms around her, her head pressed warmly to the older girl's stomach for the briefest moment, stopping her words. "I never meant to hurt you," she heard her love whisper, "I never meant to hurt any of you, or lie to you either. So don't ask me for truths that you won't want to hear."

She felt the brunette let go then. She would have grabbed for her arm to keep her there, like Ron did a moment later, or shouted her name as she walked down the hill, like Harry did in a few moments more. But Ginny couldn't. Not when she was still stumbling to find the meaning in Hermione's words, to understand why each one had sounded the same, and to make them sound like anything else.

Anything else, but _Goodbye_.


	17. Questions Unanswered

Ginny expected word of their break-up to wash quickly over the castle, flooding the ears of the few hundred students who crammed together for every meal. It would start with Harry telling Roxie and be scooped up by a dozen others at the next Ravenclaw practice. Or it would stream from Dean and Seamus, who would have overheard Ron's grumblings that first night, as the boys dressed for bed. Even the owls may have had it soon enough from Vickie. Surely the girl had to wonder why the four-poster next to her, so long unoccupied, suddenly had a lone sleeper tossing in it at night.

Instead, the red-head found the trickle to be painfully slow, with herself stuck poking the dam more often than she liked. Neville had been the first, followed by Ernie and Luna. Then there had been Hagrid. The conversation never began the same way—an invitation for she and Hermione to join a study group for DADA, an inquiry regarding whether the older girl might know the particular spell for unjinxing a leftward leaning broom—and the conversation didn't end the same way either—awkward consolations, stuttering disbelief.

But it always came down to one question. The one question with an answer that Ginny simply did not know.

What happened?

She'd gone to their room that first night, unsurprised to find the door locked and unrelenting, no matter how many spells she cast at it. What stung was the finality of it, the haphazardly-packed trunk of her belongings waiting just outside the door, leaving her no leverage for demanding entrance, no "I just need to get my Astronomy book" excuse for seeing Hermione's face, seeking out some hint of an explanation.

For an explanation was the only thing that the older girl seemed to have forgotten to pack. Quidditch and school robes-both washed and unwashed-her half-finished Divination scroll on the impact of Grim sightings on the modern consciousness, even an old quill of Ginny's that had long-ago stopped holding ink and the worn-out feather pillow from the red-head's side of the bed. Hermione had forgotten nothing. And in this, she'd forgotten everything. Everything that mattered to Ginny, at least.

_Was it so wrong to hope for a note?_ the younger girl had wondered, when the litter of their life together lay before her, unpacked on the four-poster of her old dorm room. _An insult or an apology? A stab at honesty or the cold comfort of a well-crafted lie?_ Whether or not she'd admit it to herself, in those first few hours, Ginny would have taken any of the above. She would have clung to the belief that Hermione was straight, gay, bisexual, confused, angry at Ginny for some unmentioned slight, overwhelmed by the love she had for the younger girl, devoted to a life of solitude in pursuit of academic integrity . . . She'd have taken anything offered, as a starting place for her own apology, to plead for friendship or separation or to take the romance more slowly . . . She'd have agreed to transfigure herself permanently into a book, just so Hermione could . . .

It was with that thought that Ginny finally realized she was being ridiculous. Hermione didn't want her as a book, anymore than Ginny was honestly willing to simplify herself to such a state. And Hermione wasn't angry at her, as much as that thought would have been easier to bear (because it came with the hope of seeking forgiveness). The truth was that their relationship was perfect until Ron had said what couldn't be unsaid. No, the truth was that their relationship couldn't have perfect, or Ron's words wouldn't have had the strength to upend it like some slender goblet of pumpkin juice forgotten at the edge of a table.

The truth was everything Ginny's brother had insinuated-that Hermione had chosen, against her nature, to be with a woman for the safety that choice offered. Maybe it was conscious, but more than likely Hermione had been lying to herself as well, attempting to fit a friend's fierce devotion into the mold of a lover's, unsure at first of why it kept breaking off at the edges, why it never quite filled the void. Maybe after a time, the Head Girl had realized this, but she didn't know how to voice the facts of her feelings without devastating Ginny. Then she realized that the devastation was inevitable, that she didn't have it in her to keep up a life-long ruse. Not when Ginny had been faced with the truth and had asked point-blank for Hermione to embrace or reject it.

Or maybe insight had hit Hermione like a stunning spell, jetting out from the wand of Ron's accusations. Maybe, until then, the brunette truly hadn't known the reason for her persistence in a relationship that brought her happiness but no passion. She hadn't opened herself up to the reality of her longing for safety and security, hadn't ever meant to hurt anyone, Ginny especially, with this ignorance of her actual desires and needs . . .

Maybe Hermione's intent was a riddle that even a Ravenclaw couldn't unravel. But intent didn't change the ending. Intent didn't counter the truth. Which is why, Ginny had grudgingly admitted the next morning, it made sense that no note had been included.

No note was required.

Not when it could only add excuses to a reality already spoken.

And Ginny didn't need excuses. The truth was, she forgave her. Yeah, the part of her forged of Weasley pride and anger stewed over the relationship's end, wanting to lash out blame at several parties, label Hermione's new silent-treatment as malicious, and attach several crude labels to the other girl's character. That part of her never won out though. Mostly, she just missed Hermione. She missed the warmth of another body beside her in bed at night; the hope of waking to tender kisses; and the confidence of knowing that she was wanted, treasured even, by someone who didn't have to feel that way about her, who could have chosen from a thousand worthy partners, and yet who chose to be with Ginny instead.

She missed being loved. She missed being special. But more than any of that, Ginny Weasley missed her friend.

The first few weeks were the worst. She'd be sitting in the library, stuck on a particularly tricky bit of Transfiguration homework, and out of habit, she'd turn to Hermione for advice, only to remember that the seat next to her was empty. Little things would happen during the day—funny mishaps, surprising quiz grades—and her first thought would be Hermione's reaction when she told her; her second thought, remembering that she no longer had Hermione to confide in. She'd find her arm reaching out in the night, muscle memory telling her it was no longer resting on Hermione's stomach, protectiveness telling her that it needed to be, that it made Herm feel safe. But every time, she was reaching out for empty air. And the empty air would wake her.

Now dozens of such nights had passed, Valentine's Day whisked away with Ginny's gift still gathering dust under her bed; the snow finally cleared, with no daydreams of sunrise walks at the lakeshore to ease the tedium of Binn's boring lectures. February churned into March and began wakening toward April, with a promise of warmth that Ginny's spirit couldn't match. The initial shock of her grief had worn down, and her heart was no longer breaking. Instead, it had settled, piece by piece, at the bottom of her chest, waiting there quietly like the partially thawed ground for a change in seasons that might never come.

In the midst of all of this, the Gryffindor team had won in their match against Slytherin, but only just barely, and Ginny couldn't take any of the credit for it. Hermione had come to the game, cheered them on as fiercely as ever, but she hadn't waited around to congratulate her friends when the match was over. It had become the same with other things. In the last week alone, the brunette had stopped to help Ginny pick up the contents of a torn bag in the hallway between classes, had wished her a good morning as she made her way out of the Great Hall after Wednesday breakfast, had even sought her out in the common room to return a Harpies jumper that Ginny's parents had mistakenly owled to the wrong daughter.

But Hermione would never approach her when there wasn't a crowd of other students within hearing distance. She'd never stay for more than a moment or say more than the transaction required. It was like the curly-haired witch was going out of her way to be nice to Ginny, while doing everything she could to avoid actually interacting with her.

Of course, Ginny had tried to run into her alone. Had whispered requests and slipped notes under her door, asking only for a private conversation. At least she'd done this at first. But note after note went unreturned, as request after request only garnered a quick, sad shake of Hermione's head.

Until the day that they didn't.

Until the second to last Hogsmeade weekend of the school year, when Ginny awoke to find a scroll tucked into the pocket of her robe, the handwriting unmistakably Hermione's.


	18. Guise of the Asker

Ginny,

I'm sorry. I know you want to talk. I know I've been ignoring you. I know it isn't fair. But I don't know what to say. I've written this over a hundred different ways, and I'm still not sure that I got it right.

Oh, Ginny. I've made a mess of things with you. And I hope you're not mad at Ron. I hope you're not mad at yourself. I'm the only one at fault here. I meant what I said, about not meaning to hurt you. Never intending to lie to you. That's why I won't lie to you now. I could make excuses, about being hurt, being confused. But I won't. You deserve better than that. The simple truth is that I thought . . . Well, I wanted to think I could want something I couldn't, something that was so good for me, but I can't change who I am. I know that now. And Ron was right. I felt safe with you. But I really didn't get the big picture of where that all was leading. I didn't know that I was asking you to give up finding true love and happiness to spend your life keeping me safe. You were so good to me, and you seemed so happy, and I thought if things could just stay like that forever . . . It was a foolish fantasy on my part. You deserve someone who can love you like you loved me. I'm just not that girl.

I hope at least some of this makes sense to you. And I hope we can be friends again, someday. I know from your notes that it's what you want. I'm just not ready yet. Maybe I'm still angry at myself, too afraid that I'll say the wrong thing and lead you on, hurt you more. Maybe I need to figure out how to make myself feel safe, so I don't go through my life repeating the same mistakes. I don't know. I just need some time. The school year will be over in a couple of months, and I still plan to spend the summer at the Burrow, if that's okay. Maybe by then, I'll be ready to answer any questions that you still have, ready to try to get our friendship back, if by then you still want me as a friend. Just give me time. Please.

Hermione

* * *

Ginny read the note over and over, until she could lay the scroll flat on her desktop, every curl in the parchment tamed by the sweat of her palms. She had expected Hermione's words to bring her to tears She had expected to feel an overwhelming compulsion to analyze every verb-choice and add a dozen more questions to ones already circling in her head.

In truth, neither thing happened. The sense of loss that had settled around her in these past weeks didn't deepen, nor was it alleviated. She felt no sudden anger at Hermione, whose earnest innocence had never been in doubt. Yet she also felt no urge to rush in and save Hermione from anger at herself. She knew it would do no good; that, like Ginny, the older girl most likely would have to find peace with their past on her own.

It's what Ginny was trying. She couldn't pretend she wasn't still in love with Hermione. If that was the case, she would have read the note once and discarded it. Not kept it like some photo of a loved one lost at sea. But she couldn't pretend that her life was over either, that wallowing in her misery would make either of them better off in the end.

So Ginny committed to organizing her own homework, making a study schedule for next year's N.E.W.T.s, and tacking reminders of upcoming exam dates on the shelf above her desk. She drug herself out of bed each morning for flying practice, focused her full energy on Harry's drills, and tried each week to find at least one happy occurrence to write home about to her parents. She made it a point to set study dates with Luna, to chat with Neville in the common room and to play Exploding Snap with Ron.

She smiled. She laughed. And though it was never the same, it was more and more often genuine.

What Ginny didn't do was look at other girls. She didn't nod in agreement if some witless but well-meaning sixth year tried to show her solidarity by putting Hermione down. She didn't throw away the note, or her charm bracelet, or any of her other reminders of the love she'd thought they shared.

But she also didn't violate Hermione's request. She didn't write any more notes of her own or try to bump into her ex browsing shelves in the hour before the library closed. She didn't choose the only empty seat at the Gryffindor lunch table that had another empty seat next to it, in hopes Hermione would have to sit there. She certainly didn't allow herself to entertain fantasies of "this is all a bad dream" and "Hermione will come 'round to fall deeply in love with me." She didn't see the point. Their script wasn't headed in that direction. That much had been made clear.

The days passed slowly this way, but they passed. And for Ginny, that was enough.

With time, Ginny got to the point where a whole hour could go by without some memory of Hermione popping uninvited into her head, and today she was enjoying one of those rare hours. She was sitting in the common room with Harry and Roxie after Saturday Quidditch practice, warming her broom-stiffened legs by the fire and listening to the other girl speculate about her family's planned summer holiday in the states. The red-head found her thoughts wandering to when the Weasleys had won the galleons for their trip to Egypt, how afraid she'd been of Fred and George's warnings about cursed tombs and skin-burrowing Scarabs.

She'd thought she'd mention how safe it had all turned out when Roxie began fretting over American gun-ownership and the news stories she'd read on muggings and illegal Taxi scams. She'd thought she'd mention how her Uncle Hugo had once spent a year in New York and loved it so much, her grandmother Prewett had to threaten to banish his inheritance in order to fetch him home.

But Ginny didn't get to impart any of these comforting thoughts to Harry's black-haired belle because as it turned out, Roxie faced a much more immediate danger sitting on the Gryffindor's scarlet and gold couch-the danger of a drunken idiot, sloshing his Firewhiskey down her shirt as he tripped face-first into her lap.

"G'off her," Harry shouted, springing up in a rush of anger and grabbing Dean Thomas by the collar of his robes. "The hell you think you're doing?"

Dean only giggled in response, then sobered up enough to say "Sorry, mate" with a straight face, before bursting into another fit of laughter.

Harry held his fist still clenched at his side, as if he couldn't decide whether to punch his suitemate or take pity on him in his completely pissed-state, now that he was at least off of his girlfriend.

Seamus made the decision for him. "Alright, enough celebrating for you," he grumbled quietly, taking Dean firmly by the arm, "Me mum'll kill me if McGonagall finds out I snuck that stuff in here. Up the stairs with you . . . "

"But I wanna shee it, see it, Shamush, look on his face *hiccup* look when some big werewolfsy or trollsy-wollsy pops out . . ."

"What's he on about, then?" Harry asked, half-disgusted, half-amused. "Tell me you guys aren't letting trolls in the castle to torture the first years? Not that it didn't help _me_ make some friends when _I _was a puny eleven-year-old," he smirked, "but . . ."

Seamus laughed. "No, Harry. Don't alert yer prefect pals. Th' first years are safe. Dean, well just atween us, he had a bit of a row with Snape, long story involvin' his Potions grade and an owl home to Missus Thomas. Anyway, not much you can do to a teacher, right? Except Dean figures he knows this kid in Slytherin who's got a boggart locked up in his school trunk, claimin' anyone can borrow it for a few galleons. He figures it must be true, and one howler from his mum, a few shots of Firewhiskey . . . well Snape'll have a surprise when he opens up his potions cupboard to prep for torturing first years in detention."

Seamus ended his explanation with a nonchalant shrug and began hulling Dean toward the boy's staircase, but Harry reached out a hand to stop him. "Dean put a boggart in Snape's potion cupboard?" he whispered tersely.

"Yeah, so . . ." the boy began, but Harry cut him off, "Any git with half an ear for the complaints around this place knows Snape's having detention in the _Forbidden Forrest _today. He's left his classroom to Hermione, who asked to set up practical tutoring for the younger students worried about their O.W.L.s . . ."

Seamus shrugged again, pushing past Harry's hand. "Stupid waste of galleons for Dean then. He'll love to hear that once he sobers up . . ."

But Harry let him go, wasn't listening. Instead, he locked eyes with Ginny, who had gone ridgid on the couch, the words "boggart" and "Hermione" wakening something in her that she'd determined to leave rest.

"When . . ." she stood, looking imploringly at Harry, "When did she . . ."

"I don't know . . ." he gulped, "she said after lunch, but she was stopping at the library first . . . Maybe a half hour ago, maybe she's not even there yet?"

"I'll . . ." she started, but Harry immediately understood. He waved his hand urgently and told her to "Go."

* * *

Ginny listened to her trainers slapping against the stone floor of the second floor corridor, pretending the sound was louder than the beating of her own anxious heart, as she rounded another corner, ran-practically tumbling-down another winding staircase.

Maybe Harry was right and Hermione hadn't even reached Snape's classroom yet, but Ginny wasn't going to waste any time checking the library, not when Hermione could be alone in the dungeons. Alone with a hidden boggart. Probably unaware that it was a boggart at all.

Ginny tried to keep the thought from her head, tried not to let a rush of queasiness slow her pace. She knew what that boggart would turn into. She knew what Hermione would have to see.

Jacob.

And wrack her brains as much as she liked, Ginny couldn't remember if a boggart could really hurt someone. She thought it probably could, or why else would Lupin have had Harry practice defeating a boggart-turned-dementor? Maybe it wasn't as strong as a real dementor, maybe it held no death in its kiss, but didn't it bring the same chill to the air, didn't the Patronus charm work on it as if it was real? Which could mean boggart-Jacob might not be able to hurt Hermione, but he might be able to. He might be able to touch her, to threaten her with a re-enactment of her worst memories. Which was enough. He might have hurt her already . . .

Ginny skidded down one last section of corridor, yanked open the door of the dungeon classroom, held onto it tightly to keep herself from doubling over in want of catching her breath. And she saw her.

Hermione, cowering at the foot of Snape's desk, her arms protectively encircling her chest, eyes shut tightly and tears treading a shaky path down her cheeks.

Ginny drew her wand, staggered forward, prepared to face the boggart and to force it to face her, to transform it into a different fear, one that couldn't be nearly as scary as the scene that unfolded before her. She tore her gaze from Hermione and drew a deep-breath, an image of frilly tutus stuck fast in her head and the shape of the word "Riddikulus" on her tongue.

But she'd miscalculated. She'd caught it from the side. The boggart didn't see Ginny yet, and it retained its shape for Hermione alone.

It was a shape Ginny was unprepared for. A shape Ginny could never have guessed. For there was no repulsive man leering down at Hermione, threatening her harm. There was only a thin girl in school robes. A thin girl with red hair. A face to match Ginny's own.


	19. In the Hand of Regret

"Me?," Ginny whispered, kneeling down in front of Hermione, her back to the forgotten boggart. "I'm the thing you're most afraid of? _Me?_"

"Ginny?" Hermione choked back, opening her eyes and looking bewilderedly between the girl in front of her and the boggart-girl off to the side, who was now standing still and quiet, confused to be faced with the shape of itself and unsure of what new form to take.

The real Weasley found herself suddenly sitting, her head shaking back and forth in disbelief, her brain at a loss for more words. She missed the comprehension dawning in Hermione's eyes, barely moved when the older girl drew her wand and spoke the spell that would leave them alone together. She never saw what humor could be added to so startling a visage. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

A minute passed and then another, as Ginny's breath returned to her in the still silence of the dank dungeon, as she found the courage to return her gaze to Hermione, to see the other witch still crying. The red-head knew then that she should get up and leave, walk out of this nightmare and end it for Hermione, whose view of her had changed, obviously, from "safe" to its opposite.

But she found herself unable to move. Desperate for an explanation, Ginny sat on, waiting for what came, but came slowly-an answer from the other girl.

"Not . . . Not you," Hermione began, only to pause again, as if lost in her thoughts.

Finally, her voice quavering, the brunette continued, "Losing you. Hurting you . . . I didn't see you, Ginny, not just you. I . . . I saw you saying how much you hated me now, how we couldn't even be friends, how much I disgusted you . . . And . . ."

"But . . ." Ginny countered. She didn't understand. Hermione was the one who had ended their romance. Hermione was the one who had rejected Ginny's offer that they resume their friendship, at least for the time being. If that was what she feared the most, why was she doing everything in her power to make those fears come true? _Not that she could make me hate her, _Ginny thought, _but we'd have found our way back to some semblance of closeness by now if she had allowed it. Maybe it wouldn't be exactly like it was before, but it would have been something; I'd have figured out how to love her more or less platonically, how to let the rest go, little by little . . ._

Not having the energy for so many words or the certainty that she could so blatantly reveal her vulnerability, Ginny Weasley forced herself to pull away from these thoughts, forced herself in a new direction of assertiveness, asked for what she had wanted all along.

"Make me understand, Hermione. Show me why you're doing this. Show me why we can't be friends, if that's the thing that you're claiming to want . . . "

Yet despite the undertone of pleading that broke through the forcefulness of Ginny's words, the other girl didn't answer. Instead, she stood slowly, ducking her head so as not to hit it on the edge of the desk, brushing dust from her robes, and directing her gaze to a far-away corner of the room.

"Please, Hermione," Ginny continued as the brunette turned her back on her. "You said you didn't want to lie to me, but telling me nothing is _worse_. You don't get to walk away from this without hurting me, not unless you can make me understand why you're being this way, not unless you can you can show me how it got to this . . ."

A barely perceptible nod from Hermione and Ginny stopped, knowing that she had pushed as far as she dared. She added one more word, another emphasized "Please," then stopped her requests to let the other girl consider them.

After a moment, Ginny saw Hermione nod again, this time with more conviction, this time in a way that meant the red-head had won. The other girl didn't turn around, but Ginny watched her place her hand in the inside pocket of her robe, pulling out a small orb, plated in gold and swirling with grey and purple smoke.

"I've been trying to put it all together, trying to make sense of it," Hermione sniffled, placing the orb on the closest desk and releasing it from her hand. "Maybe you can do a better job. Maybe you do need to know."

Ginny watched her friend straighten, then watched her reach out to touch the orb one more time, as if hesitant to be parted from it. The moment she did, Hermione's arm jumped back as if stung, and she shoved the offended hand in her pocket, turning now to look at Ginny with fresh tears in her eyes. "Just promise, promise me you'll bring it back when you're done. Or promise me you'll destroy it. I don't care either way. It's just too much to leave it here not knowing . . ."

Ginny nodded, "I promise," not knowing what "it" was or what she was agreeing to. _But if it meant so much to Hermione . . . _

A few more moments and the other girl had walked from the room, shutting the dungeon door securely behind her and leaving Ginny to approach that magical object left behind. As soon as she held it in her hand, she recognized it from the week before Christmas, remembered dozens of its cousins lining her brothers' shelves. The twins words echoed in her head:

~It's the We-Remembrall 2000, like a pensieve for your pocket!~

_~and _it has a storage feature to boot. Any memory-fifteen minutes  
or shorter-that you think you'll be wanting later, just pop it  
inside, then press this button here . . . ~

~and Presto! You're there.~

Ginny reached forward, sought out the little button, breathed through the curiosity and dread pulsing through her in equal measure, steeled herself to know what Hermione thought this could show her, allowed herself to hope that understanding would come at last. She found it. She pushed it.

~And presto, you're there.~

And presto, she was there.


	20. Bearing Witness

At first the world around her is dizzying, like flipping top-speed through a photo book where you're expected to stand on the pages. Ginny sees herself lying tangled in an old maroon blanket; Hermione next to her in the dim moonlight shining through the Burrow's open window-a contented smile on her face as she watches the younger girl sleep.

She jolts forward. She sees a lit-up freckled face, red-blotched with cold, love in her eyes as she watches her girlfriend tighten the scarf around her neck, lean-in for a Christmas kiss.

Then Professor Vector's voice is in the background and a piece of parchment solidifies into the scene, on a desk in front of Hermione. She's filling it with ancient runes and their translations, copied diligently from the blackboard, but she stops to scribble a name in the corner, to let the edges of her mouth turn up as she draws a heart over Ginny's "i."

The pictures begin flying faster and Ginny can barely keep up.

The two of them smiling together now . . .

Now holding hands . . .

In bed again, a different night, a different blanket . . .

At the lake shore, defending their lunch from an  
overly-friendly Thestral . . .

On a broom, flying over the forbidden forest, Hermione's arms around Ginny's waist as she whispers in her ear . . .

Snuggled up in a single easy chair in front of the common  
room fire; Neville close by and Harry doubled over in  
laughter at some joke that's just been told . . .

Image after image, a score of them flashing by, and then just as suddenly they stop. The room goes dark.

* * *

Slowly, dim light displaces the shadows, and Ginny feels the reddish-blonde hairs on her arms begin to rise with an eerie foreshadowing of fear, though she has no idea where she has landed.

Furniture begins to take shape, an unfamiliar dresser, an unfamiliar bed, figures moving in the darkness beneath a border of yellow-and-blue checkered wallpaper. She hears muffled sobs and steps toward them, allows the haziness at the edges of the memory to fade away in favor of sharp contrast. She wishes immediately that she hadn't, but she can't look away and she doesn't know how to leave.

It's Hermione on the bed, seeming smaller and frailer than Ginny could ever remember, an empty look in her eyes, a head between her legs.

"We'll keep this up until you show me you're enjoying it, and I'll know if you're faking . . ." comes the taunting sneer of the suddenly raised face, before it lowers again to its work.

Ginny feels her stomach drop, reaches her hand out for Hermione, feels a scream burrowed deep in her throat and the need to get to that bed, rip it from floorboards, upend all that is wrong with the scene . . .

But as soon as she moves, the memory flutters out of reach.

* * *

She's standing in sunlight now, sunlight shifted through the leaves of a group of Alders, soft moss beneath her feet and a warm breeze playing at the nape of her neck.

This memory solidifies more quickly. This memory isn't wrapped in the dark shadows of shame.

Ginny looks up to see her brother materialize in the wood, joined by Hermione. They've appeared mid-conversation, pulled out of thin air with the ginger boy's hand caressing his then-girlfriend's chin.

"Just one kiss, Mione?" he asks with a quiet hesitation, "Come on, I know you'll enjoy it. It's not like I'm asking for anything more . . . but we've been dating for some time now, and when you love someone, you're not afraid of them . . ."

"Mione? Do you love me?"

"Mione?"

Ginny doesn't hear the answer. Already the forest is fading.

* * *

She's back in the room of nightmares now, immediately recognizing it for what it is and unwilling to stand passively by and bear witness. Ginny runs to the bed before its outline has fully formed. She shoves her full weight at the sinister figure as soon as it appears on top of Hermione, straining from the effort but all to no avail.

She places her palms on either side of Hermione's cheeks then, telling her that she's there, willing Hermione to hear her, to see her, frantic in her need to make this all stop. "I won't let him hurt you, Herm. I'm right here. Please. It's not real anymore. It's not real, and I'm right here with you. . ."

But Hermione is lost, a fragment of a memory, untouched by the love reaching out to her, the love that wasn't there when the memory was made.

Ginny hears the voice again, feels the chill run down her spine.

"Getting a little loose, aren't we?" Jacob says, gripping Hermione's shoulder and thrusting once more inside her. "Ah well," he laughs coldly, "it's all for the best. Now if there's ever any man after me, he'll know he didn't get here first. Every time he's inside you, he'll be forced to think of me, of how I broke you for him, taught you every little trick that brings him joy."

Ginny's knows that if they could, every bit of sausage and biscuit from her lunch would leave her now, but her role in this doesn't allow them to. She doesn't even have time to finish attaching meaning to the memory. Again the room quickly fades and she's spinning away somewhere else . . .

* * *

Ginny finds herself on a hilltop at Hogwarts, back to her brother's voice, the memory highlighting but a single part of the speech she remembers so well . . .

"Tell me, Hermione, does Ginny know yet about that scar you have on your chest from the Devil's Snare we got caught in our first year? Because I saw her journal at Christmas, that first week when I was pissed and looking for vengeance, ready to get even until I saw the kind of questions she had for you, how desperately she was struggling with why you never let her touch you."

More words slide unnoticed from Ron's mouth, their volume barely audible as Ginny watches his breath rise in puffs of steam, watches her own face slide into a mask of hurt confusion, paler than the winter air.

Then the memory turns itself up again. This time it's Ginny speaking:

"Hermione, are you . . . is it true that I'm . . . "

She hears another echo, words that were never spoken, and she knows that the impression of Hermione's thoughts were left behind in this last piece of memory:

_I am, Ginny, but I can't . . _.

_I am, but I can't . . _.


	21. Serenity

A single spider, no larger than a knut, threaded its way gracefully between the desk corner and dungeon wall-across and back, across and back-building a web while Ginny sat watching. She still held the memory ball tightly. She felt its gold casing etching painful furrows on the inside of her closed fist, but she didn't loosen her grip. She still hadn't decided-whether she should shatter it or return it.

The first one would feel better, she knew, but the decision was hardly hers to make. A dull ache began to creep up Ginny's tailbone from sitting too long on the hard stone floor, but it was barely noticeable beneath the burn of the bile in the back of her throat and the stinging of unspent tears in her eyes. She'd been here how long now? Twenty minutes? An hour? Playing the same scenes over and over in her head, trying to make sense of them . . .

The red-head's first instinct, of course, when she had tumbled from out of the remembered and back into to the real, had been to seek out Hermione. She wanted to run to her, to wrap her in her arms as fiercely as the night that Dean had first awoken Ginny's fear, to ease her own pain (in having witnessed these acts) through the feel of Hermione safe in her arms. But she still didn't know what Hermione wanted.

The last words of the last memory echoed in young girl's head: "I am, Ginny, but I can't. I am, but I can't." _Am what? _Ginny wondered, _Gay? Straight? In love with me? Hurting and confused? _Were these memories a goodbye message, a "See how much I've been hurt already; isn't it best you just leave me alone"? Or could they be a plea for help, a cry for understanding, an explanation of why things had ended up like this?

She thought she understood at least the first memories, the snapshots of the two girls together. She thought that Hermione must still care for her in some way, perhaps even miss having her around, or _why else would she have saved so many happy memories of our past? _She thought she might even have a good idea of the what the later memories meant, and after watching them, she thought she might know what Hermione meant by "I can't."

But she wasn't sure, and eventually she had to admit the source of that uncertainty. She had no context in which to place her interpretations. She needed answers now more than ever, but first, she needed the courage to ask for them.

Ginny straightened her legs one by one, easing the stiffness that the damp dungeon air (and her cramped position) had slipped into each calf. She stretched her arms in the same way and tried to clear her head, but after enough calisthenics, she knew she was only stalling.

It came down to one question, really. No matter what Ginny did now, it could be the wrong thing. So would she rather error on the side of angering Hermione by seeking her out when she didn't want to be bothered or on the side of abandoning Hermione by not seeking her out when she needed a friend?

Okay, maybe there was a second question too. Would she rather hear the truth, no matter how painful, or go on in ignorance, never quite knowing the true source of her broken heart?

The answers to both meant finding Hermione.

* * *

As stupid as Ginny felt knocking on the door of a room she once lived in, she knew barging in wasn't the way to start so delicate of a conversation. The red-head had even forced herself to walk here slowly, to not be winded and sweating when she reached the dorms, to put her calmest face forward.

She was impressed that she managed to maintain that calm when Hermione answered the door, when she led Ginny inside and offered her a seat on the bed while the brunette went to curl up in the overstuffed chair by the wardrobe. As they passed, Ginny silently slipped the We-Remembrall from her hand to Hermione's and when she sat, she watched the older girl examine it briefly before tucking it back into her robes. It was seeing the little bulge that it made there at Hermione's side that caused Ginny's composure to loosen, as a new thought occurred to her and all of her other questions were temporarily dislodged from her mind.

"Herm," she started, taken aback by the realization, "Have you been watching those? Is that what you meant by you've been 'trying to make sense of it all'? Why . . . why would you do that to yourself? I could barely watch some of it and I didn't have to . . . I can't imagine."

At first Hermione wasn't forthright with her answer, merely shrugging, but maybe she saw how truly concerned Ginny looked, because after a moment, she offered more. "Some of them less often than others," she said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, "But mostly I don't have to; they're already in here" she finished, as the hand lingered on her temple.

"But it's okay," she continued, "Really, Ginny, at least as okay as it can be. I've seen a hundred variations of them, hundreds of times, when I used to have nightmares, and after a while, when you're awake and have the choice, well . . . you learn to go somewhere else in your head when you need to . . . There were a lot of time when I needed to . . ."

Ginny nodded and swallowed, unsure at first of what else to say, then determined to take the risk. "I think we should talk about them, Hermione, about why you decided to show them to me, what they mean . . ."

She watched as Hermione bit her lip and looked away, not confirming that she was willing or denying that she was able to do as Ginny asked.

"Hermione," the younger girl tried again, "Please. I'm not going to pretend I don't know how hard of a thing that is to ask of you. But if you were willing to let me see that, if you trusted me enough to be there in the room when he . . . Hermione, you have to let me help you. You have to help me. I need to understand."

Ginny stopped talking when she thought she heard something, and Hermione filled the silence, "I know . . . I know I need to. I just . . . I don't know how. I don't know where to start. Maybe if you asked, it would be easier. Ask me any question. I promise, I'll answer it this time. I'll make myself answer it."

"Okay," Ginny said, pausing for a moment to recollect her thoughts and then surprising herself with the direction that they took her.

"What I want to know first, I guess, is . . . I want know how you feel about me, about us. Was any of it real, Hermione? When you told me you loved me, when you kissed me? Was it only because you thought I wanted that, that I would leave you if you didn't, because I wouldn't have. I know it's not the only thing that matters here, but it would help me to know where I stood, where I stand now . . . So I have a place to put everything else."

"It's a fair enough question," Hermione started, "but I'm not sure I'm ready to answer that one yet, I don't think it'd be fair to you. . ."

"Fuck fair," Ginny interrupted irritability, before remembering how hard this was on the other girl and softening her tone, "Listen, Hermione. I'm not looking for a right answer here, just the truth. I can live with being your friend or your girlfriend, your lover or just some girl who lives down the hall. What I can't live with is not knowing how I'm supposed to try to feel about you . . . not that I have much control over how I feel, but at least I'd know how to act around you, at least I'd know it was okay to be around you. I just . . . I want to know how you _really_ feel, okay, not how you think you're supposed to feel, not what you think is fair to me. Because it's _not_ fair to me if you tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me when you don't, simply because you think hearing that would make me happy. But it's also not fair to tell me that you just want to be friends, if you feel something more and you're just afraid of what that means . . ."

"I love you," Hermione said, so quietly at first that Ginny almost missed it, but she repeated it again, "I love you, Ginny, I always really loved you. And not as a friend. That's the truth. When I picture the rest of my life, when I let myself go there without criticizing what I want, I picture it with you. When I see my kids, they have red hair and freckles. When I see my wedding, it's you standing next to me, not some faceless bloke it a suit. I don't know if that makes me a lesbian or bisexual, but whatever I am, I don't think I'm that way because of what happened to me. I don't think what happened to me has anything to do with why I love you. What was it that you said to me over the summer? 'I love you because I don't know how not to love you.' That's how I feel . . . How I honestly feel."

In any other context, these words would have caused the red-head to swoon with joy, no less because the feelings sounded genuine than because she still shared them herself. In this context, however, Ginny didn't know what to feel. There were too many emotions swarming together and shouting to be heard. She knew what she wanted to ask next, what she wanted to ask because of this, but she found her words as tangled as her thoughts.

"Can I . . . Hermione, I know this might sound like the stupidest question that I can ask right now, but can I . . . I mean, it's just talking about this, knowing the other questions that I have to ask. . . It'd be so much easier if . . .Of course, you can say no, but . . ."

"What, Ginny," Hermione encouraged her, "It's okay. I promised you could ask me anything."

The youngest Weasley took a deep breath. "Can I . . . Can I hold you?"

Hermione smiled then-a small, sad smile, but it seemed authentic -and she slowly nodded her head. "I always felt better when you did."

It was more awkward than the red-head thought it would be at first, as Hermione climbed onto the bed, as Ginny gently embraced her, leaning back, adjusting Hermione's head so that it was resting in the cradle of her shoulder, then tucking it softly beneath Ginny's chin. Finally, she remembered the right angle to hold Hermione snugly in place with one arm, so she could gently caress her hair with the other. In that moment, Ginny finally felt home again.

And she wasn't sure that she wanted to ask any more questions. She wasn't sure that she didn't just want to close her eyes and sleep here, smelling the honey and lavender, letting the warmth of a moment smooth out the pain of many months.

But Ginny knew she couldn't take the easy way out, couldn't have this again just to lose it. She cleared her throat gently and continued running her fingers lightly through Hermione's curly locks. "Why, Hermione? Why did you end it with me?"

"It's . . . I guess it's complicated."

"But it was because of what you showed me, right, it has to do with those memories?"

Hermione nodded into Ginny's shoulder.

"The first ones," Ginny continued, "They're all of us, me and you, they're some of the best memories we have."

"They're my best memories," Hermione agreed, "The ones I needed to hold onto. They reminded me of how happy you made me, but they also reminded me of why I had to stay away, how much I didn't want to hurt you."

"How would you have hurt me, Hermione? I think I know, but I need you to tell me."

Hermione didn't answer at first, and Ginny knew she might have to prod further. "Was it the memories of Jacob? Was it those things he said to you?"

She felt Hermione stiffen at the mention of his name, and Ginny slowly began rubbing gentle circles on the small of her girlfriend's back, letting her know it was okay, reminding her that she wouldn't leave her, that Hermione could do this. Ginny gave her the opening, hoping it would help. "In the first one, he was trying to make you do something you were ashamed of. Talk to me about it, Hermione. Tell me what made that memory hurt worse than the others . . ."

"He . . ." Hermione started, letting herself relax a little in Ginny's arms, "He used to make me have orgasms . . . Not all the time, but sometimes, he would do different things until . . . And he said it meant that I wanted it, that my body wouldn't have responded that way if I didn't."

"Hermione," Ginny breathed, having understood the gist of this already but still finding it painful to hear it spoken out loud in the other girl's voice, "Hermione, you know that that had nothing to do with it, right? You know that our bodies are designed to react certain ways to certain stimuli, no matter what we want. If you eat a poisoned piece of Treacle Tart, your taste buds are still going to get all the same flavors, it doesn't mean you wanted the baker to kill you . . ."

Hermione nodded again into Ginny. "I didn't know at first, I guess, but yeah, now . . . Like I said, you helped me see it wasn't my fault, any of it, you and your family helped me to see that a long time ago. It's just hard not to let the old beliefs creep in sometimes."

"Tell me what it has to do with us, Hermione," Ginny said, encouraging her to continue when the silence had lasted too long, "Tell me what you're afraid of." Again, she thought she knew, but she felt it needed said.

"What Ron said . . . He was right, I can't bear the thought of a man touching me. But I can't bear the thought of a woman touching me either, not in that place . . . I can't even touch myself there. And I didn't want things to end with Ron because of sex, no more than I wanted things to start with you because of sex, and I liked it when you kissed me. I liked when I could give you pleasure. But Ron reminded me of what I already knew, that you were wondering why I wouldn't let you touch me, and I wondered how long you'd be willing to wonder that, if I was keeping you from ever experiencing real intimacy because it didn't feel safe to me . . .

"And then there's what Ron said in the woods that day, the third memory, that you shouldn't be afraid of someone you love . . . I think it might be true, and yet I am afraid. Not afraid that you'd hurt me. I know you'd never hurt me, Ginny. But I'm afraid that if you were to touch me like he did . . . It's why I couldn't even be naked with you, for fear that I might let myself go too far, that a hand would stray to the wrong place, and it would take my mind back to that bedroom . . ."

"I would never," Ginny emphasized "_never _touch you like he did. Because when I touched you, it would be out of love. It would be gentle; it would be with affection and adoration, and as much for you as it was for me. Because I wouldn't touch you until you were ready, and I would only touch you in the way that you were ready to be touched, and if it didn't feel safe, we would stop, and if took a year for it to feel safe just for me to kiss your shoulder, it'd be a happy year that I got to spend with you. Even if I just get to spend the rest of my life holding your hand, it'd be worth it, because again, I get to spend it with _you." _

Hermione nuzzled in closer and whispered, almost teasingly, "You're _allowed _to kiss my shoulder," before resuming the reserved and quiet-tone that her voice had held all night, "but thank you for saying that, Ginny, thank you for meaning it. I think . . . I don't know what I think . . . I'm not really ready to try anything tonight, but if I ever was, I'd want it to be with you. Only . . . "

"Only what, love?," Ginny asked, "Tell me what you're thinking."

"The next to last memory, the one where he . . ."

"Where he said that anyone that came after him would know he was there first?"

The older girl nodded one final time, and then she was quiet again. A few minutes passed, Ginny holding Hermione close to her as she felt her robes begin to dampen, heard the quiet shaking of Hermione's tearful breath.

"Hermione," she said, when she'd had a chance to think it through, "I do know he was there first. But I'm not thinking about that when I'm with you . . . And even if I ever did, it wouldn't matter to me, not in a bad way at least. What he did to you is about him. Yes, I know it hurt you, but it didn't make you any less loveable than you were before he ever thought of causing you that pain. . ."

"It made me damaged," she said quietly, "It made me used goods. It made me broken . . ."

"Have you ever read Hemingway?" Ginny asked then, moving her small hand north from Hermione's back and returning it to stroking the hair along the side of her girlfriend's face, "It's _A Farewell to Arms_, I think, or maybe it was one of his short stories. Dad practically got the whole collection when this old muggle library closed down, and when he was in St. Mungo's after that snake attacked him at the ministry, Mum didn't like him to be left alone. Me and my brothers used to take turns reading to him. Anyway, whatever the book was, there's this one line that really stuck with me. 'The world breaks everyone, but afterward . . ."

"'Some are strong at the broken places,'" Hermione finished for her. "It is _A Farewell to Arms_. I haven't read that since I was 10, but I remember the line."

"You would," Ginny nudged her playfully before returning to her more soothing caresses, "But the point here isn't your brilliant memory. It's what the line means, Hermione, at least what it means to me. The world does break everyone, maybe some of us it breaks a whole lot more than others. But if anyone was strong afterward . . . Because that's what I think if I ever think about him touching you first . . . not how damaged it makes you, but how strong it makes you. You're the strongest person I know."

"Then, you'd want to be with me, even if it meant we might never . . . Even if it turned out that the reason I'm with you is because I love you, but one, just one of the many, reasons I love you is because of what Ron said, because I feel safe with you."

"Hermione," Ginny answered, "keeping you safe is probably my favorite thing in the world to do. Or is it making you happy?," she teased, "Or is it loving you? Maybe it's knowing that you love me and that you think I have the best right-wing feint in all of Quidditch and that I'll be this sexy International Superstar and you'll end writing my best-selling biography because you know me better than anyone . . ."

"Stop it," Hermione nudged the other girl with her elbow, laughing the first laugh Ginny'd heard from her in months, "My first Quidditch-book bestseller is obviously going to about Krum. Not that he's nearly as cute as you. But he is _already_ famous, and I'll have a whole year needing something to distract myself while you finish out Hogwarts and get yourself recruited . . . Not that it would hurt you to have your loving girlfriend scouting out the bludger-bashing competition, giving you secret tips on the newest flight moves . . ."

"Like you even know which end of the broomstick a player is supposed to sit on," Ginny teased back, lying down further on Hermione's pillow and pulling the covers up over them. "I can't picture you within a league of a Quidditch pitch if you don't have to be . . . If anything you'll spend the year in law school, or writing some dull 21st century revision of _Hogwarts: A History_, insisting it's the most fascinating subject since self-slicing bread charms."

The conversation lingered on this subject, each girl teasing the other, more serious subjects occasionally weaving their way in. They resumed an earlier argument about the wallpaper color of their future living room, returned to discussing the most sense-offending names for their future children. The topic didn't matter to Ginny ,and she let it shift where it may.

What mattered was the honesty. What mattered was that the lines of communication had opened tonight in a way that couldn't be easily closed, in a way that would make their relationship whole. What mattered was that the younger girl still held Hermione, their positions shifting here and there as they drifted closer and closer to sleep.


End file.
